Deluge
by Laegwen
Summary: Under leaves of green, Legolas and Eroth were kindred spirits, caught in a friendship of arrows and antics. A thousand years after their meeting, the Great Worm came upon a lakeside town. Just how dragon-fire so many leagues away came to change their fate one could never have guessed. But then again, Eroth Dree always had a penchant for trouble. (Legolas/OFC) (AU, slow burn)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Erebor was swallowed in a dark shadow; a shadow that shook the very ground at its awakening. They said it was the day greed soaked the soil. And then there was the fire that glinted in the eyes of a child's mother; bright and cruel it rose, like a bloody dawn. They also said it was the day a thousand farewells became wingless.

When the day was gone the fire flickered, trembled, curled into tortured ashes. Ash fell, silent and soft; it was the steps of children along the staircase before dusk. It was the boats through the water; those that left, and those that sank.

The Mountain had not seen a storm as such.

" _This is the storm of a dragon,_ " Balin shouted. Behind him the last of the flames shivered from the blackened horizon.

Thorin Oakenshield stepped down from the boulder. Balin thought it was grief that clenched his hands but he opened them, and there lay the talisman he had laced around his neck since childhood. "We have nothing now."

He cast the necklace away and the Dwarves moved on. Their sky was tattered and so they claimed every sky they slept under, across the plains and mountains and the wanton stars. Many a king had become a wanderer. They could endure – no wanderer ever forgot his home and, perhaps, the years would gift them luck.


	2. Under Leaves of Green

**Chapter 1 - Under Leaves of Green**

 _A thousand winters ago, in the elven settlement of the Woodland Realm_

Evening had settled; sunlight was dwindling, and the light of freshly lit lanterns pooled upon the vast walls the Palace. Nestled upon his _atar'_ s velvet robes, and leaning against the base of the throne on which those fabrics draped, was a mere elfling. He could not be more than forty summers old – uncommonly young in Elven terms – and yet his clothing and posture spoke of stature and importance, a somewhat unlikely responsibility to fall upon such a young mind. This was the Prince of the Woodland Realm, as betrayed by his pale hair and azure eyes, though in his meagre years still juvenile, impish and arrogant.

Twice already Thranduil had tried recall his son's attention to the Elven poem he was supposed to be studying at his knee, but the elfling's attention drifted constantly to the great doors of the Hall. The King could understand his anticipation. A company from Lothlorien was due to arrive before nightfall, and among that company was two Elflings – brother and sister – of around Legolas' own age.

They were the children of Balthoron, one of Thranduil's most important advisors. The older one – Pelior Dree – had departed from Greenwood when Legolas was still an infant. Thranduil thought he remembered the elfling, with his gentle hands and head of dull red curls. His sister – by the name of Eroth – never knew the trees of his realm. She was born in the golden shade of the mallorn of Lorien, and in that same tender shadow had passed her mother. Perhaps she shared her brother's blazing hair.

Meanwhile, the soft notes of the Elven poem had faded. Legolas' fingers stilled over the delicate page, and he turned over the leaf only to pause, and lift troubled blue eyes up towards his father.

"It's nearly nightfall _, atar_. Will they truly come?"

"None can seek the mercy of the road," Thranduil slid the book gently from his hands. "But have faith, my elfling."

* * *

The long-expected company, Legolas observed, was an eclectic group.

The elfling uncurled his limbs from his _atar_ 's robes. He could see that beneath heavy grey travelling cloaks the silver hems of Lorien attire encircled necks and wrists, and the wearers were light-haired, pale-eyed, glimmering under the keen lantern flames. As they passed the darker hair of his Greenwood kin he distinguished among that of the Lorien escorts, and in their eyes came the glint of familiarity. Legolas could read them better: the way they walked, brusquer in pace and curt of gesture, the deep roll of their speech.

Two smaller figures were steered from amidst their grey-clad frames. The King descended from his throne. Velvet robes slithered and were dripping down the spiralling steps when Legolas ventured to follow. He cast an absent eye over the company.

The slighter of the two elflings was lifting her hood, a pale hand drawing back the grey cloth to reveal large, dark eyes, which flickered towards the formidable form of the King before lighting upon Legolas.

" _Le suilon_ ," the Princeling greeted.

Her glance flickered over him, glinting grey, curious. " _Mae g'ovannen_."

"N _ethel nin_ , meet the young prince of the Woodland Realm."

The voice came from the youth by her shoulder, about a head taller, who also wore a head of reddish curls. He looked amiable, and altogether more comfortable and condescending than his sibling. Legolas thought he heard a note of irony in his tone, but at least he smiled, and her sister did not.

"You may call me Pelior, young one," the youth continued, "and _she_ is Eroth."

"I know my own name," Eroth muttered. Her lips twisted into a scowl.

"And she knows yours, no doubt," her brother added, "You have the King's hair, I see. And his eyes. May I call you Legolas, little Prince?"

"You may, Pelior," the elfling replied, as regally as he could muster. He had learnt that imitating his father begot only laughter and strange looks, but this time he drew himself up and tried to summon kingliness to his face.

Eroth, who was drooping back against her brother's shoulder, watched him through half-lidded eyes. Her head tilted to one side, like a sparrow's, and her mop of red hair shifted to one shoulder also.

"Legolas – it means 'greenleaf', does it not?" There was a strange, hushed lilt to her speech. "It's curious. I'd always known leaves to be golden. But then I suppose your name is special. What is your other title?"

There was a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose. It was all rather disconcerting – Legolas did not even know that Elves _had_ freckles. Or dimples, for that matter, for when the elfling's lips curled upwards, one side of her lips tilting up more than the other, a small hollow appeared upon her cheek.

"It is Thranduilion," he said. "After my father, but no one really calls me any other than Legolas."

"Thranduilion." She uttered the word softly, in the lilt particular to her.

"Sister and brother, we are both named Dree," said Pelior. "To speak true, I had been worried for Eroth's company. I will depart for Lothlorien soon. Do take care of my sister for me, little Prince. I rest assured that you seem not half as snobbish as I had expected."

Meanwhile, the King had finished greeting his guests, and the Lorien visitors were directed to their prepared accommodations. They became a procession of grey robes, and vanished from the lantern-light down the walkway. Legolas felt a firm hand settle on his shoulder.

"Do not tire them, Legolas." His father turned to the siblings, "you must be hungry, and weary from travel. Food will be brought up to your rooms shortly, and you may stay in the Palace until Balthoron's old home is fit for living again."

Eroth was led away by her brother, hands gripped tightly around Pelior's tunic, her glance intent over her shoulder. The Legolas of those early times watched her leave, leaning upon his father's auburn robes, watched her with something like disappointment.

So ended the brief meeting of two immortal individuals who would, in due course, become life-long friends and much, much more.

* * *

Someone had placed purple lavender at her bedside. Eroth lay curled up against the wall, fitting her body in the hollow between the bed and the wooden window. The snow had stopped falling sometime before dawn. She craned her head and peered out at the empty sky, with its pale threaded treetops and shards of morning sunlight, and sank tighter into her little crevice.

Before they had left, her father spoke of the Woodland Realm with reverence, with fondness, as if all its trees and stone and bitter history were but an old friend, not long lost. Her brother was more hesitant, more eager to forget, and he told her of times: of morning fog, of lanterns at twilight, of rushing rivers black under a midnight sky. But Eroth could tell that he liked Lorien, liked it more than his first home, dwelt naturally in its silver glory and ceaseless song.

Things did not stand tall or straight in Greenwood.

The pillars in the Great Hall wound upwards, crooked as rivers, and the dark trees loomed. Everywhere there was moss, lush and sprawling, hungry for the wet ground and sharp cold rock. She found crickets, like scattered leaves, under her bed and between floorboards and in the realm of her dreams, chirping, chirping incessantly into the night.

Her father's Greenwood, her brother's… those were different lands. Eroth decided that she did not like Greenwood at all, _not this one_.

Yet the seasons passed, and winters rose and fell and folded into fragile summers, and Eroth soon saw for herself the morning fog, the lanterns at twilight, and the beauty of the midnight river. She saw too the wilderness there, taking flight with the forest birds and the howling of the woodland wind; became intimate with it. She knew the scent of morning air, trembling upon dew-wet gossamer, and made friends with the cool velvet of dawning dusk, with its flutter of settling wings and the scrawl of a pale moon.

This was not her father's Greenwood, nor her brother's, but her own, sweet and untamed and _hers_.

She had claimed it now, and it would be her home.


	3. Thranduilion

**Chapter 2 – Thranduilion**

 _Ten Years Later_

A mirthful golden light stole into the realm below Greenwood's forest. It shone through large openings in the entwined roots which wove through the ceiling, providing ample illumination to its wanderers. In the sparse areas of shadow and cold, however, a small figure was moving swiftly.

Legolas clambered onto the jagged boulder, slipping in his haste on the moss which had crept onto its surface. Once the elfling reached the top he scrambled onto an overhanging ledge, fitting his knee against hard rock, and glanced over the edge. The grounds were silent, and the only movement within sight was the play of light upon the twisted surfaces of the pillars. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Assured that his pursuer had been left behind, Legolas tugged off his shoes and began to beat their soles against the rock, trying to rid them of their caking of mud. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, and was wiping his hands upon clumps of moss when a clear voice sounded out, light and sweet as silver bells.

"Thranduilion! Don't you hide from me!"

Legolas paled when quick, light steps could be heard tripping down the path.

Abandoning his shoes, the elfling slid down the opposite face of the boulder. There was an underground stream wound around the rock. His bare feet met the water, and he stifled a cry as he slipped, and fell to a crumpled heap against the boulder. Dirty and disorientated, the young Prince was just recovering from his fall when a warm body knocked into him forcefully, sending him off balance again. A sharp elbow was wedged against his ribs, keeping him on the hard ground.

A triumphant chuckle reached his ears, and a small, pale face soon came into view above him. Legolas suppressed a grimace.

He remembered the evening of ten winters ago, its procession of grey robes and her strange dark eyes. They had spoken few words then, and they spoke even fewer thereafter. Their formal studies had not yet begun, and Legolas was inclined to spend time with nothing but the trees and the sky.

It was just as well. Eroth Dree had turned out like the dew in the morning: occasionally pleasant, but remarkably troubling when it soaked through the shoes and made the ground inconveniently slippery.

"Well?" She asked, in tones of arrogant delight.

"Don't lean so close; your hair is in my eyes."

Annoyance flashed across the elfling's features, but she reached out and brushed the offending red curls over her shoulder. A note of petulance crept into her voice. "Will you teach me now?"

"It would depend," the other replied languidly, "on my mood."

Her scowl deepened and suddenly a dull pain shot through his chest. Her elbow had descended with vengeful force upon the area above his lungs. "I'll _make_ you. It's just holding a bow, and making an arrow fly. I can't see why you won't show me how."

"That would leave a bruise, elf."

For a moment her grey eyes were thunderous. Then Eroth's features softened, and her look of menace became suddenly, disarmingly pleading. She hesitated, biting her lip in uncertainty, before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"Come, Thranduilion," she said, somewhat more pleasantly, "you'll help me, won't you?"

Legolas lay back on the ground and stared up at her. His resisted the urge to rub his cheek.

As the stream slowly soaked the back of his tunic, the elfling reflected on how it must feel if _he_ was held back from wielding a weapon. Eroth's father had denied her such training on the grounds that she was too young to attempt it, and that she could grow accustomed to 'harsh movement and inelegant postures'. He'd come upon the exchange one winter afternoon, and heard the crunch of a clumsily bent bow snapped underfoot.

 _After all,_ Legolas considered, _she could be reasonably amiable when she wasn't feeling so demanding._ Eroth was younger and smaller, but she came armed with many skirmishes with her peers and a general lack of self-preservation. Legolas did not warm to the idea of another bruise upon his chest.

"If you would get off me first…" he murmured.

She watched him some more, eyes narrowed, and then with one clean motion the elfling rocked back upon her heels and stood.

Legolas sat up slowly, a hand upon his collar. He looked down at his soaked sleeves and feet, significantly lacking in footwear. "The archery range is empty early mornings."

"So it's agreed, Thranduilion? You won't go back on your word?"

Eroth knelt down beside him, her eyes alight. There was a small hollow upon her left cheek.

"If you teach me how you achieved that tackle, then 'tis agreed. But stop calling me Thranduilion, it sounds grating."

His new friend merely smirked delightedly. "Never, Thranduilion."

* * *

The morning mist was just beginning to lift.

"I've told you before, Eroth, your shoulders are too tense."

The elfling holding the bow frowned, turning her grey eyes to the speaker with wounded indignation. "You're hardly the expert, Thranduilion. I could teach you a few things with my bare hands."

"From the distance between your last arrow and the target, you're not one to speak."

She was beginning to wonder why she had sought the Prince as a tutor in the first place. She could think of many, and was doing so as she squinted at the target, who were much wiser and less arrogant than he. All of whom – Eroth wrinkled her nose – were too intimidated by her father to heed her.

If there was one thing useful about Legolas, it was that his father inspired even more fear than hers.

Said elf had scaled the nearby fruit tree and now settled between the leaves with an apple in his hand and a smirk upon his face. As Eroth narrowed her eyes, shifted her feet and failed at meeting the target with her arrow, he began to crunch on his pickings.

"I'm _hungry_ ," she told him.

He hummed in agreement, and the crunching continued.

Eroth sent him a glare askance, but refrained from reintroducing him to the ground as she nocked another arrow. She was just about to release her hold when-

"Don't throttle my bow."

"I can't help that. It's has betrayed me multiple times," she retorted, but adjusted her grip with no more than a grimace.

This time, after Eroth had assiduously reviewed her position and posture, her arrow struck the edge of the board – she sucked in a breath – and fell limply to the ground. She gave a cry of frustration and turned her eyes toward the figure in the tree.

" _Thranduilion, tua amin_!" _(help me)_

"What's that?" A new voice spoke from behind them, "harassing the Prince, elfling?"

This brought a cold stop to Eroth's haranguing. The elfling frowned and turned to face the intruder. It was an older ellon, gangly and sneering, who had crossed the archery field bearing his bow and quiver. Legolas threw down the apple core and sat up.

Meanwhile Eroth cast a glance over the new ellon. He could not be more than two centuries older, and yet – he was a head taller than her and the bow across his back curved sleeker, longer. And he had crossed his ankles and settled back against another apple tree – the ellon was staying. She bit her lip and slung Legolas' bow over her shoulder.

"What do you want?"

He smiled thinly. "I thought that you were a little too delicate for wielding a bow, Eroth Dree – that your father has made rather clear."

She stared at him, appalled. _He knew her. And he was patronising her._ "Who _are_ you?"

"That's Istuon, Dree," Legolas murmured, "he's infamous."

Another smile, stretched as parchment. "Ah, the princeling speaks."

 _He had no business here._ Her anger flared. "What's that?" Eroth taunted, "harassing the Prince, elfling?"

"Don't use my words, carrot. Why don't you follow your brother back to Lorien?"

There were many wiser than Legolas in the Woodland Realm, but until now Eroth had not thought that there were any more arrogant.

"Carrot? What are you then, Istuon? A copper coin, at the bottom of a purse?"

If was hardly the most scathing of insults, but Eroth's eyes were drawn to Istuon's hand upon his bow and his thin smile and she was almost – _almost_ afraid. In the silence that fell she saw Legolas flash a glance of warning, heard him scatter leaves as he dropped to the ground.

"If you are that prone to spite, elfling, then you'd better have courage to match." Istuon seemed to lean more ominously over them; he had moved closer. "At least I can nock an arrow without snapping its feathers."

"If you are no coward , fight with your hands, Istuon." She gathered her courage, and threw down her bow, "two against one, Thranduilion? What do you think?"

Legolas looked at her. There was a new expression on his face, and he said slowly, "we shall see."

"Do you elflings settle every trifle with a brawl – "

Before he could continue, Eroth had shifted onto the balls of her feet, rushed forward, and tackled him to the ground. Legolas tugged the bow from the ellon's shoulder and levelled it at his neck.

"Elflings?" said Eroth breathlessly, "You're not far from one yourself."

An enraged Istuon made for her arms, and ere long the three were rolling on the ground, a hazy tangle of limbs in the lifting mist.

Moments later, they were broken apart by strong hands.

" _Eroth Dree_ ," the First Advisor roared. "Remove your hand from Istuon's head _this instant_."

As soon as his daughter had complied, albeit reluctantly, Istuon shot up from the soil and made a heated retreat. Eroth fixed her gaze resolutely upon his discarded bow as firm hands turned her shoulders away. Balthoron glared down at the elfling, stiff and sheepish beneath his hold, and sighed.

"You resemble me too much in youth. There are many manners of resolving a dispute and not all of them demand drawing your fists."

Eroth made not sign of answering. She felt her father's hands tighten on her shoulders. _It was no fault of hers._

"I shall not question your presence here," Balthoron murmured. "But if I hear word of any more such petty conflicts, I shall be obliged to do so."

Then he was gone, striding into the trees and scattering leaves beneath his robes. Eroth leant heavily against a tree trunk, biting her lip to suppress a growing urge for tears, and threw vengeful glances down the path where Istuon had stalked away. On the ground his bow glinted in the morning light, carven from fine dark wood.

Someday, she would be an elfling no longer and her bow and quiver would not be borrowed. Someday she would not need her fists to prove her courage.

"It's your eyes," said Legolas.

Eroth glanced up hesitantly. He was seated cross-legged on the ground, cradling a patch of deepening red upon his cheek. "You always stare at the arrow. It's about the alignment, Dree, but I will have to show you."

She looked at him, at the offered apple within his palm, and a smile began to bloom upon her features.


	4. Stolen Vinegar

**Chapter 3 – Stolen Vinegar**

 _50 years later_

In the desolate landscape of the Palace's lower levels, a pair of young elves were huddled under the shadow of an overhanging arch. They had been forced to press their backs against the rocks to evade the glow of lamps, and the steady trickle of water down the black underground stone was soaking their thin tunics. Neither of them seemed to mind this predicament, however, as they shared a glance of triumph in the blue shadows.

"They're gone, _mellon nin_."

"We can't be sure."

"Perhaps you're right. Do you still have the wine?"

There was a slight pause, and then some scuffling. "Ay, Dree."

After their whispered words ceased, the friends listened for further signs that they were in danger of being found. When they heard and perceived nothing, Legolas stood, slipping his fingers into carvings on the arch above them, and peered cautiously over the edge. "Dree, there is no-"

His sentence was cut off by his frightened intake of breath as the light of a flaming torch swept over their hiding spot. Legolas ducked his head sharply, reaching a hand down for Eroth to take. He pulled her up beside him and felt her breath by his ear.

"We can't run _now,_ " she hissed. "Can't you hear? They are nearing."

"Follow me. We have no choice."

Eroth opened her mouth to protest, but he tugged her arm and she scrambled gracelessly over the ledge. They crept over the arch and under tree roots, until they happened upon the opening of a flight of stairs.

The friends clambered down the steep steps in desperate haste, slipping on the wet stone slabs as they descended deeper underground. The menacing rhythm of the guards' pursuing steps stopped suddenly. They looked at each other and held their breath. After a few moments' hesitation, the guards seemed to have turned a corner and their steady tread faded into silence.

Simultaneously, the trouble-makers let out sighs of relief. Eroth turned to her friend, her eyes glinting from the distant lantern light. "Thranduilion," she whispered impatiently, "hand it over. Let me try it."

Reaching underneath his tunic, Legolas produced a small brown bottle. She snatched the object from his hands and removed the lid, pausing to study its liquid contents warily.

"Should I drink it?" she asked tentatively.

"No, Dree, you use it to water your lavender."

Eroth looked up darkly and he said nothing further. Lifting the bottle to her lips, she risked a sip – and choked in surprise. "You take a drink," she urged in consternation.

Her friend leaned over Eroth's shoulder. "It smells strange –"

"It smells like vinegar," a voice proclaimed coldly behind them.

The two companions started in alarm. A dark-haired ellon was standing on the steps. His garb was somewhat different to theirs, hanging loosely on his frame, and he was pulling at the frayed hems of his sleeve. Sensing their scrutiny, he bit his lip and lifted his chin, returning their gaze with an impassive look of his own.

They were pleased to note that he was roughly their age, and thus not righteous enough to report their behaviour, yet the hostile expression upon his features lessened their relief.

"What are you doing here?" Eroth probed.

The ellon looked away. "Visiting my father," he said quietly.

Eroth looked around in bewilderment, at the iron-threaded walls and the thin dark hallways twisting into places beyond lamplight. She set down the bottle in her hands. They were in the Palace's dungeons.

As they later grew to know, Feredir Idhrenion was born into a family of cooks, and his father had once prepared food for the King. There had always been dark times for Greenwood, and that year was one of them. With a rebel group shadowing the realm, suspicion and wariness hung in the air like a plague, festering in the market place, the dinner-table, spreading through condemning mouths.

Feredir's father had been accused of poisoning the King's wine. Hurion had never been quite the same after three years in imprisonment, though he lived now with a clear name and a set of beehives in the fringes of the forest, growing all specimens of vegetables perhaps too humble for the King's table.

Meanwhile, a short silence descended upon them. The new ellon's eyes darkened at the exchange of glances between those before him. "I suppose I am deemed dangerous now."

"Not in the least," Eroth replied indignantly. "You have nothing to do with your father's deeds."

The elf scowled, and his expression of accusation never faltered. "How are you so sure? What if my father is innocent?"

"Then," Legolas said firmly, "we must know you better."

"Go grow a beard," Feredir muttered darkly.

They did, of course, grow to know him well. Granted, it had been weeks before Feredir had stopped calling Legolas princeling, but they soon grew familiar, and a friendship bloomed. Feredir had not lost his abrasive manner, but they could see even bitterness and mistrust could fade with time.


	5. Towards the Old Forest Road

**Chapter 4 – Towards the Old Forest Road**

The first day of spring was the day Eroth greeted him from a tree. Her braid was brushing the undergrowth, and she smiled up at him from her lopsided vantage. The elleth was hanging upside down.

Legolas had stopped on the path, looked away from her smile, and became suddenly and sullenly engrossed with the material of his footwear. As it was, he was in no mood for such frivolity. A harrowing round of fatherly admonishment was enough to dampen the brightest of spirits. Legolas had been given his first taste of duty.

And yet here she was. Barefoot, his friend was a familiar tumble of rumpled attire and auburn locks, still frustratingly carefree, and still immune to such unworthy things as duty.

"Come, Legolas," she studied him blithely. "Haven't you forgotten me?"

Her teasing tone made another wave of bitterness rise in his throat. _She_ need not mind her words, her actions. _She_ was not scolded for sneaking around. _She_ did not have to call her father King. And so he was silent.

"What, _mellon nin,_ " Eroth spoke, "have your noble duties drawn a cloth around your good sense?"

She righted herself. Perched upon the bough, Eroth looked down at him through tangled copper hair. She arched an eyebrow. "Follow me. Feredir and I are partaking in a competition for tree-climbing."

"My father would not approve."

She frowned, a crease twisting between her brows. "Never mind what the King says. What do _you_ say?"

Legolas lifted his gaze from the ground. "Leave me alone."

A rustle of summer's branches. Eroth dropped down before him, and her grey eyes were intent. "Why?" she demanded. "Is my company repugnant to you now, my prince? Am I below your notice?"

There was still a note of laughter in her voice, as if she expected him to break this strange new facade at any moment. Legolas answered not, favouring instead the preferred option of glowering at the ground. He felt Eroth step closer, felt the mirth drain from her eyes.

"So it's true then." Her voice became soft. "You have grown too high, Legolas, to look at your childhood friend but from over your royal nose?"

It was well-calculated provocation. Eroth's head had tilted suddenly to the side, the action light and birdlike, and her braid slipped over her shoulder. It reminded him uneasily of Balthoron.

"You don't understand, Dree."

Legolas lifted his arm to bid her aside. She offered no resistance. Caught off guard, she stumbled back at the abrupt push.

" _Ai!_ " she cried, a pout finding its way onto her features.

Legolas reached out hastily. "Dree, I am sorry –"

"No," Eroth flinched away, her gaze lowering. Suddenly there seemed to be a melancholy air about her, something in the way her shoulders slanted downwards and the flicker of her eyes. The elleth looked at him sadly through her lashes. "'Tis clear to me now. I will leave."

It was too much. The ellon was defenceless against this onslaught.

" _Mellon nin_ ," Legolas said softly. "Stay."

She was victorious. The fortress was broken. Eroth sidled closer, a wicked smile growing upon her lips. Grey eyes bore into him, bright and expectant. She rocked back on her heels, fiddling at the buttons of her shirtsleeves. "Well? So you do not forget me."

Legolas grasped her arm fondly, holding her gaze. The gulf between them, so shallow and pitiful at its begetting, had vanished. "How could I forget the instigator of so many of my troubles?"

Her smile widened. "Well?" she repeated.

* * *

"The Forest Road?" Feredir repeated incredulously. "That is some distance away."

"We'll make a path from the tree tops, _mellon_. It would be much faster than the routes of the woodland ground."

"Where exactly is the finish?" said Eroth. She wound her fingers through her braid and tightened it, a preparation which bode a long contest.

"It would be where the stream meets the road," Legolas answered. "We have all the time before noon."

"Have you any edible provisions?"

The friends knelt down on the grass and laid out their supplies: three handfuls of nuts, two apples and a small piece of Lembas. "Elvish way-bread!" Feredir exclaimed, "How did you get hold of that, Thranduilion?"

"I have my ways," the Prince replied ambiguously.

The dawn mist was stirring from the dew-wet undergrowth, rising and dissipating like smoke from dying embers. With cool bark under their hands they began to climb upwards, revelling in the morning air and the familiar childhood tones of the faintly lit forest.

"I'm starting _mellonea_ ," Eroth called out.

"The first who walks upon the Forest Road wins."

There was no difficulty in finding a path through the forest Eroth knew so well. Her winding ascent through the trees came to her like the lines of her palm, and she traced them with leaves of near-summer. The elleth had learnt to climb as a human infant would begin to walk, and she moved to the swaying of the branches as a weathered sailor would upon the waves of the sea. With nimble ease she steered the ripples of the forest.

Only twice did her feet touch the ground, where the foliage was too dense, or the trees too sparse, to proceed. Sometimes Eroth would stop to watch the growing light, silvery and lucid, touch onto leaf, bark and cloud. And in those moments she inhaled the sweet fragrance of the wakening woodland, and was sure that she knew no other home.

Once, she was disturbed out of her blissful rest by a flash of pale hair through the foliage, and a new urgency spurred her onwards.

Dawn blended into morning, and morning into noon. Eroth saw no more of her competitors, though the whisperings of the wind seemed constantly to conceal the movements of another.

At last, frequent scatterings of silver birches told of the faded soil laid upon the ground around the Old Forest Road. She pulled herself upwards into the extremes of the canopy, cautiously balancing herself as she assessed her position from her higher vantage. With pleasure, she discovered that she was immediately North of the aforementioned stream.

Eroth tilted her head. Over the hush of her serene surroundings she could hear the distant clatter of a horse's hooves. As the sound spun itself into distinct notes, curiosity drew her swiftly through the trees. Erewhile, she saw the tired yellow dirt of the Old Forest Road winding into the hidden distance.

Crouching between the leaves, the young elleth could see a figure and a chestnut horse coming down the path. Their approach was leisurely, for the mare had slowed to a trot, while its rider had dismounted and was leading it by its grey reins. Her heart started beating rapidly within her chest.

Eroth recognised his bright hair, even though his face was turned away –more than that, she recognised the very elf. Every movement of his was etched into her young mind.

A wide smile grew on her lips; her brother was back.

"Halt!" Eroth cried.

* * *

Pelior stopped abruptly, and turned to gaze alertly through the trees. "Who speaks?"

Drawing back her shirtsleeves, Eroth made her raucous way through the branches and slid to the ground.

 _"Iston I nif gin_ ," the ellon murmured, and his comment caused a merry smile to leap to her face. _(I know your face)_

"Why," Pelior exclaimed, "how you have grown!"

To her horror, he stooped and blithely pinched both her cheeks. "What a pretty elfling you have become, _nethel nin_."

"I am no _elfling_ now," Eroth replied, recoiling in indignation.

He laughed. "Nay, you will remain an elfling to me for the next hundred years, in the least. It is an arduous process. I am one no longer; _you_ still have to suffer another century of not being taken earnestly – How have you fared, Eroth?"

They continued walking down the path. "Very well. There is so much I want to tell you, all the time."

"I suppose you've forgotten life in Lothlorien, _nethel nin_."

"Hardly – though somewhat. I remember _you_ , and the lord and lady, and – and father."

" _That_ – " came the sharp reply, "you need not recall. Eroth, you were too young to understand."

She looked at him long and hard, and became silent.

Pelior turned away to fumble with the reins of the mare. 'Tis futile to hold the picture of grief behind your eyes."

His brow furrowed when she smiled. Eroth reached out tugged his fingers from the reins. "Forget what I said. Father is here now, and well, and so am I. Let us hurry – my friends shall be waiting."

They quickened their pace, footprints arcing closer upon the yellow soil. "If you can remember so little, I shall tell you of Lorien. They sing of the Golden Wood for no idle cause, and 'tis a graceful, merry place all through the seasons."

"Suppose I come back someday? Just to see the leaves in winter again."

"You will be welcomed as an old friend, dear sister. Yet, Eroth, just moments ago, when I stopped at chance to hear the song of a sparrow, all those remembrances from a distant childhood in Greenwood entered my mind."

"Have you come all this way alone?"

"Nay, two friends have accompanied me. I was very eager to reach the settlement, and have left them a few miles behind. _Falael_ has been swift, but the mare tires, and I had forgotten my haste in admiring the beauty of the forest."

"You like Greenwood then? Could you not think of prolonging your stay?"

"If you want _, nethel nin_. I could – perhaps."

"Stay for a century, then," said Eroth resolutely, "I do not want you to leave, and yet you always do."

Pelior did not reply; he was lost in thought. His sister, presuming that he had agreed, was observing him closely and chewing on her lip. "You have changed, _hanar nin_."

"Naturally," he replied, smiling.

"I meant," Eroth said, "that you have a certain elegance about you, and 'tis rather different to the Elves I have grown up with."

"I could say the same for you. I would think that something of the Woodland Realm has become your blood. There is, in particular, a peculiar glint in your eyes which has no doubt developed since I had left."

"There is no _peculiar_ glint in my eyes, no more than there is an _eccentric_ intonation in your accent."

"There," replied the brother, laughing, "you have indeed advanced over the years. Well, _nethel nin_ , what brings you to the Forest Road?"

" _Elbereth_ ," Eroth exclaimed, "it is well you reminded me. There may still be time."

"What, indeed, is it?"

"A competition among friends," she replied, and with a swirl of fabric had already mounted his horse. Pelior followed her actions, making note to later enquire after her ability to ride.

"Who are these friends, Eroth?" he asked instead, as the mare broke into a canter.

"No one to disapprove of, _hanar nin_. Legolas Thranduilion, as you know him, and Feredir Idhrenion."

"You seem to have secured a worthy friendship."

She glanced back at him. "Yes, Pelior. Yes I have."

* * *

They came upon a figure by the meeting of the stream and road. His feet were steeped in water and the soft turf cradled a head of pale braids. Eroth stifled a sigh of disappointment. His eyes were closed, but the smug curve of lips was unmistakeable.

"Legolas, _mae g'ovannen._ "

"You are late." His lids slid open. "I thought I heard a horse's canter."

She came towards him with impatience. "Come, rise and greet my brother."

Legolas pushed himself from the grass, straightening his tunic. His glance sought hers and then lighted upon Pelior. "Welcome to Greenwood. Eroth speaks of you often."

"My horse enjoys your company," came Pelior's wry reply. Legolas bent his cheek to the mare's mane and it nudged forward, snorting merrily onto the collar of his shirt. He drew back and laughed.

"So I see. Pelior, you must stay. It has been too long."

Eroth slipped off her shoes and seated herself by the stream. The water washed cool and still over her feet, soothing their ache. She leant back. "Where is Feredir?"

"I would wager some rare herbs have caught his academic eye; he may be gone some time yet."

The two friends looked at each other.

"I believe that I was the one to first reach the Forest Road," Eroth began sweetly.

"It was not our original destination, Dree."

"Meeting my brother was not our original plan, _mellon nin_."

Faltering, as always, under her imploring gaze, Legolas smiled wryly. "The art of tree-climbing allows no leniency, but I suppose we could count this as a draw."


	6. I' and 'L'

**Chapter 6 – 'I' and 'L'**

 _A hundred years later_

 _A great, undulating sea… The mouth of an ancient cave…_ The young elleth knew that she needed to focus on her studies, but her attention was irresistibly drawn to the fine particles of dust reflected in the noon sunlight.

"The ginger root, by the botanical name of _zingiber officinale_ , could too be used for its analgesic qualities…"

The dry voice broke momentarily through her thoughts, before a breeze through the open windows library stirred the dust once again into mesmerising patterns – _a lizard's path through long stalks of grass... A lowered head wrought with anguish…_

This imaginary head was suddenly replaced by a much more corporeal face as Eroth's tutor leaned over her desk. The elleth looked up in bewilderment, and found that the teacher wore a remonstrative frown, while in her hands a small piece of torn parchment fluttered in the breeze. "What is this?" was the demand.

Eroth swallowed, suppressing a grimace. While her attention was otherwise absorbed, she must have missed the note Legolas had thrown at her desk. It was reasonable to assume that their tutor had noticed it lying on the ground. She shot a glance at Legolas, seated a few paces away, who returned her look of alarm before bending over his work with artificial assiduity.

Their tutor had unfolded the note, and passed her gaze over it disapprovingly. "Your brother wants to speak with you," she read; followed by a pause, after which she pronounced- "from 'I'.

Eroth followed the older elleth's glare to the desk behind her, where Feredir Idhrenion was annotating his book with genuine enthusiasm. The ellon was too absorbed to notice their attention until his name was called, and the piece of parchment brandished in front of his face.

He paused, pen suspended above the page, and answered indifferently, "'tis not mine, Master Cystenn."

"Yet your initial is stated upon it," was the diction.

"I beg to differ, Master Cystenn. I see no 'I', but I see an 'L'."

The tutor's eyes narrowed instantly. "Do not accuse your own peers, Idhrenion."

"But, Master-"

"I will overlook the fault this time, Idhrenion, but in the next I will issue a suitable punishment. The same goes for you, Dree."

The rest of the botany lesson was spent in uneasy silence, whereupon Feredir's glare rested frequently on Legolas' back, while the latter tried to suppress his smile of amusement. Eroth deemed it necessary to make up for her former lapse of attention by writing rapidly onto her page, and pretended not to notice the exchanges between her two friends.

After Master Cystenn had tired of speaking and dismissed her pupils, they fled from the library and flooded into the sunlit hallway. It had been a splendid day – high skies were seldom seen in the Woodland Realm and since morning the sun had risen too bright and pale for dew and rainwater. Eroth tucked her books beneath her chin and walked on ahead, grazing fingertips along the ivy-lined walls.

Her fear of Master Cystenn must have vanished along with the morning dew. She considered, and came to the decision that her scolding did not warrant an afternoon of sunless study. After all, there were dragonflies among the reeds, and fish to catch in the river – no one had need for intimate knowledge of the _zingiber officinale_.

"Dree!"

Her fingers snagged in a twirl of ivy. Eroth turned.

She felt someone tug at her hair. Legolas drew away the quill she had twisted into the knot, snatched his hand away, and continued on.

"My pen, Thranduilion?"

"I may need it," he smirked, slipping it into his pocket, "I left mine in the library."

"Well, at least let me re-braid my hair."

With that, she piled her books into Legolas' hands and hooked her arm around his shoulder. With that, the elleth nimbly undid both _his_ braids. "That was for using the teacher's favour against us."

"For being angelic, you mean?" He quipped, and shook the pale strands from his eyes.

Feredir snorted. "For being the King's son, more like. Master Cystenn was unjust."

"I am sorry, Feredir." His lips twitched, "next time I'll write my 'L's more distinctly."

"Do you know why my brother wishes to see me?" asked Eroth.

"Nay, but he is waiting for you in your room. He seemed anxious; have you caused trouble lately?"

The elleth shook her head – _no more than the usual_ – and bid them goodbye as they parted paths. She deliberated for a moment, reeds and rivers forgotten, trying to admire the violets in the flowerbeds, before steeling herself and hurrying on towards her home between the trees.


	7. Riddles in the Dark

**Chapter 8 – Riddles in the Dark**

The rain pattered ruthlessly against the windows, spurred on by the incessant wind. It had blown the inky darkness into the room, along with the smell of leaves, soil and shadows unique to a showery night.

Sleep was hidden from her. Perhaps it was the weather and the noise it brought, or perhaps it was the din of her own thoughts; but tiredness evaded Eroth, leaving her shifting and restless in the discomfort of her bed. Frustrated, she turned and hid her face against the pillow.

Something felt cool and damp against the fabric, and Eroth dragged a hand across her eyes in alarm. _Crying was foolish;_ _she was no longer an Elfling._ The young elleth sniffed, suppressing the heaviness in her heart, and squeezed her eyes together in an attempt to rest.

 _"_ _I am leaving for Lothlorien shortly, nethel nin."_

 _"_ _Why?" She burst out, after a moment of incredulous silence._

 _"_ _Half a century I have passed here, and it has been a halcyon time."_

 _Eroth fixed him with a look of bewilderment. "Yet you promised, hanar nin."_

 _"_ _Lorien has been constantly on my mind. I have dreamt often of golden leaves, and anticipated my future there in my waking moments." His tone was gentle._

 _"_ _Have you not grown in any way attached to Greenwood, after all these years?"_

 _"_ _Of course I have, dear sister. I will miss you all deeply, and recall this forest with fondness."_

 _"_ _But those memories would not induce you to stay, hanar nin?"_

 _"_ _I have remained in Eryn Lasgalen for much longer than I had planned,_ because _of my attachment, Eroth. Perhaps I have lingered too long."_

 _"_ _What difference will a few more years make?" She demanded, insistent._

 _Nonetheless, her brother merely stood and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His look turned sympathetic when she gripped his hand pleadingly, but his step was steady when he left the room._

"Mellon nin."

With dizzying speed, Eroth sat up in the darkened room. _Where had she left her knives?_ Her heart began to beat fast within her chest. _She hadn't yet learnt how to fight in the dark_ – _what had she to do? Smother her opponent with blankets?_ "Who is this? Show yourself."

"'Tis I, Dree." Soft footsteps crossed the room, and the elleth saw a shadow move towards her bed. The faint moonlight revealed pale hair and familiar features.

"Legolas?" The elleth whispered in amazement, "What are you doing here? Has something happened?"

"I wanted to come here and ease your mind a little." Her friend moved to balance himself on the edge of her bed. He smelt of grass and rain and the frost-tinted night air. "Parting is never a joyful matter."

"By disturbing my sleep? How courteous, Thranduilion." Eroth turned away, slowly adjusting the cushions. Anything to hide her smile.

" _Dina, mellon_ , I risked your father's wrath to be here at this hour."

Having finished her examinations of the fabric of her cushions, the elleth looked at her friend. Nevertheless, she had failed to conceal her bright eyes and dimpled cheek, despite having exerted efforts to erase her smile. "Very well then, I suppose you could stay."

Eroth slipped off the bed, shifting bare-footed on the icy floorboards as they began a mission in making themselves more comfortable. Moments later, they had heaped some pillows haphazardly against the nearest wall, and settled down with a folded blanket pulled over their shivering forms.

"Want to challenge me to a game of riddles, Dree?"

"I am so grateful for your company at this instance," was the mirthful reply, "that I am almost hesitant in injuring your pride."

"Do you deem my defeat inevitable?"

"I merely deem it highly probable."

"In which case, let us test if my pride is as easily susceptible as you consider it to be."

Eroth quirked an eyebrow, but made no further protest. " _Lle auta yeste'_ Thranduilion." _(you go first)_

The rain and the wind still mourned in the forest beyond, and a ghostly light had drifted into the room. The elleth closed her eyes as she listened to the riddle; fatigue was finally making its elusive presence felt, and Eroth leant back on her cushion, resisting the urge to seek sleep upon her friend's shoulder. She was sure Legolas would not appreciate such an action.

 _"_ _Until I am measured I am not known,_

 _Yet how you miss me when I have flown._

What am I?" Legolas began. If he noticed Eroth's abstraction, he chose not to comment.

Eroth pulled the blankets tighter around them, tugging at a loose tassel. "It's 'time', isn't it?"

"Ay, _mellon nin_."

"Thranduilion?"

"Have I ever mentioned my preference for another name?"

There was a pause. "Have you wondered what it feels like to be mortal?"

"Many times, Dree."

"There; _you_ call me by an alternative title as well. Well, what notions have you formed of it?

"I have always thought mortality would be somewhat similar," Legolas replied quietly, "that is – until the loneliness sets in."

The rain had stopped; somewhere in the distance, a scatter of lights were reignited. Eroth watched their languid glow bleed into the darkness, her thoughts turbulent. _Legolas would not always be there. Sometime in the future, Eroth would have to face immortality alone._

Cool fingers brushed her cheek, and Eroth turned to meet her friend's steady gaze. "Your turn," he said softly, his eyes wide and dark in the moonlit room; the shadows had veiled their usual blue tint.

A smile tugged at the elleth's lips as Legolas caught a strand of coppery hair, idly twisting it into a small braid. Feeling a strange surge of affection for the ellon beside her, Eroth decided to favour him with a relatively common conundrum.

 _"_ _What has roots as nobody sees,_

 _Is taller than trees_

 _Up, up it goes,_

 _And yet never grows?"_

A smirk danced onto Legolas' features, and Eroth cursed herself for being weakened by his pleasantries. "I recall," the ellon murmured, "it is that which is:

 _Stronger than steel,_

 _Older than time;_

 _More patient than death,_

 _Stand will they until the stars have ceased to shine."_

Legolas tucked the finished plait behind Eroth's ear. "Shall we say it together then, _mellon nin_?"

"'Tis a mountain."

"You see, Dree," Legolas followed pleasantly, "that your faith in your success may not be entirely justified."

There was a note of smugness in his voice which Eroth was determined to erase. _The elf must get his arrogance from his father._ Resting her head against her hand, she indicated for the ellon to commence.

 _"_ _As destructive as life,_

 _As healing as death;_

 _An instituter of strife,_

 _Just as prone to bless,_

 _It is all that is good,_

 _Yet with an evil trend;_

 _As it was the beginning of things,_

 _It can also be the end._

 _What am I?"_

Legolas watched as a crease formed between Eroth's brows; the riddle had perplexed her. Her fingers were tapping out rhythms on the quilt of the blanket, and the ellon wondered briefly whether they reflected the pattern of her thoughts, before her triumphant voice drew him out of his musings.

"I suppose," Eroth said slowly, "the answer is love."

"Nay, mellon nin," Legolas said, startled, "'tis fire."

Her brows drew together. "Love applies as well, I would think."

The ellon regarded her curiously. "You do have a very harsh view on love."

"'Tis true, is it not? You wouldn't find a painless love had you searched as far as the Sea of Rhŭn." Upon meeting no reply, Eroth continued softly:

" _As beautiful as the setting sun_

 _As delicate as the morning dew;_

 _An angel's dusting from the stars_

 _That turns the land to a frozen moon."_

Her voice had faded as she spoke, the ending notes melting from her lips like frost under the sun. Her hands were folded against her cheek, and her head had slipped down onto the pillows. The moonlight fluttered on her lashes, shimmering against her closed lids, and lavished its silvery light upon the elleth's sleeping form. Legolas reached over and slowly drew her plait out from under her cheek, where it would have left an imprint when morning dawned. Upon deftly undoing the braid, the ellon blew out the candle and withdrew from the bed.

"It is well that you slept," murmured he, casting one last look back, "for I knew not the answer."

* * *

Guided by the hoary moonlight, a guard was making his weary way home from his patrol. Hastily, he strode through the sleeping settlement, passing only extinguished lamps and drawn curtains. That is, until a sparkle of some kindled flame appeared in the corner of his vision. The guard turned to find the window of a nearby house aglow with orange light, wherein two shadows – indistinct, but youthful, figures – appeared to be huddled together. Erewhile, that candle within was snuffed and, emerging from the window, a figure descended from the elevated platform, before disappearing into the darkness.

The guard could only stare, his eyes wide, somewhat taken aback by such a queer happening. _From the bedroom of Balthoron's daughter!_ He would never have thought. Yet, upon coming to the evaluation that young love was not to be intervened with, and that it was not part of his duty to report such an event, the guard continued his journey. _The lover must be a nimble fellow, to be able to move so stealthily. Had he not seen it with his own eyes…_

The guard redoubled his pace. Although his wife would have retired, there would be dinner left on the table, and a brown loaf with cheese would suffice to satisfy his growing hunger.

* * *

Not soon after that night of riddles, a company had been assembled to escort Balthoron's son to the Golden Wood of Lorien. As the company melted back into the hooded trees, the little elleth watched sorrowfully when her brother's dark hair disappeared behind the intruding branches. A mere child she was then, in Elven terms, barely older than an Elfling, and her brother would not see her again until she was something quite different – both in countenance and status.


	8. Wake

**Chapter 8 – Wake**

 _A thousand years later_

The midsummer of Greenwood was a sea of merriment, a spectacle as known far and wide as it was seldom beheld. Word would pass from the wanderers of the wood of strange light between the trees and even stranger singing, perhaps beneath soil, perhaps between treetops. It was a celebration and a feast for the Elves – and none other. Here in the Elvenking's hall flitted the dance of folklore.

The air was heavy with perfume and restless with the flair of fabric. Shining lanterns dripped from the arched ceiling, beguiling the hall with golden light and charming the eyes of ellyth. A mass of tree roots coiled into elegant patterns and sank into smooth dark walls. Leaning against its surface, under the less becoming illumination of a small lantern, stood a singular elleth. Over her cool gaze there trespassed not the glint of mirth.

Her hair was unbound, dipping over her neck in a cascade of pale silk. _Mallen caran_ , as it was in the Elven tongue – a golden red or, in less favourable light, the shade of a ginger-root. If ever some eccentric poet was to pay homage to her eyes, he could not miss their resemblance to a sea in the midst of a storm; for they were grey and restless, moored only by the hollow beneath her lashes.

But perhaps, if one became somehow keen to study her countenance, it would prove an infuriating matter.

Those dark eyes were profound, elusive yet, in their depths, passed often flickers of something that seemed like a mockery – and often was one. Alas, one would not be able to observe undetected for long, whereupon she would turn her head and unveil the apathy of a smile.

Wearily now, she touched the edge of a silver goblet to her lip. _Heavy and rich_ , Eroth Dree thought distantly, _yet the sweetness betrays its Northern sourcing_. There were harps in the shadows, hems of golden trim in lamplight and drunken feet dancing upon stools; she lowered her eyes from them. The elleth traced the carven ridges along the goblet's rim. Her fingers stilled when she heard a light tread approach.

"My lord," she said abruptly.

"Greetings, elleth of Greenwood," said the voice behind her.

Eroth dragged her eyes from the amber glint of her wine. "My apologies; I was lost in thought."

"You may repay me with a dance, my lady."

The elleth, having thereupon decided that it was high time for her absence, tried to mask her wariness at the request. She had had her fair share of courtly civilities and decorum for the day, and the dancing caused her considerable discomfort. If others found a thrill in the art, she could not share it. Fortunately, the music drew breath and Eroth eagerly took her chance.

"In which case, I will be in your debt," she said quickly, "the beverage is strong, and I must confess I have enjoyed rather too much of it."

Eroth knew that she looked her case. The dances had brought a flush to her cheeks and she _had_ felt faintly lightheaded. Casting a brief glance at the ellon's grey robes and dark hair she said in parting, "Please pass on my respects to Imladris."

"Ay, I will," the ellon replied, "Lord Elrond will be pleased to hear from you. You may call me Lindir."

She bowed her head. "Eroth Dree, my lord."

He smiled in recognition. The name of Dree was familiar to many. "Of course."

Eroth's attention had long since flitted elsewhere, but at the sudden amusement in the ellon's tone her eyes fell upon him with renewed interest. "You know of my brother, then?"

"Lord Elrond is very fond of Pelior. He is an careful healer – and an ardent traveller."

Eroth tilted her head at the carefully delivered assessment. "Ardent indeed," she murmured wryly, "Sometimes I should wish he wasn't so keen. _Na lu e-govaned vin_ , Lindir." _(Until next we meet)_

Setting her wine glass to the side, the elleth turned and cut through crowds, passing unnoticed up the deserted staircase.

There was only the murmur of the wind beyond the palace – none of the tiresome harp-song that wore at her ears all evening. Eroth trod a path through the sunken undergrowth, hands fisted in the silk of her dress, cursing the fragile fabric all the way past a patch of wild nettles.

When she no longer saw the tall stone pillars of the palace's grounds the first lanterns began to appear, dripping slender beams into the blue night.

The Wood-elves had formed a myriad of houses hidden among the trees, yet the ground beneath the main settlements remained wild and unkempt. In the passing days there had been a glow of song and voices high up in the hanging flets, yet now only silence greeted her – the mid-summer ball meant that most had gathered at the palace, dancing and flirting into the early morning.

Eroth stopped before an old oak. Its bark, knotted with the years, ran rough beneath her palms. In a fluid motion she had swung up onto the first branch, pressing herself against the cool dark bough, water laden leaves brushing against her arms and soaking through her dress as she climbed upwards. Within moments the elleth could touch with outstretched arms the twisted rope of a ladder. It was a sign that her house was a mere dozen feet above.

She climbed the ladder in the darkness. As she reached the top, she heard a familiar voice cut through the curtain of leaves.

"You're late, Dree."

"I beg to differ. I am on time, and you are early."

The elleth slid onto the small platform. It was a structure of tightly twined branches paces away from the curtained entrance of her front door, and a suitable meeting place regarding the sheer unlikelihood of the First Advisor being present. Eroth's father was known for his efficiency, and he pleased not to hamper it with stepping beyond his office.

She kicked the speaker's ankles aside as she sat. He folded long legs to his tunic and smiled, "was the dancing enjoyable?"

 _You mock me Legolas._ "You know I cannot share your taste for the art."

"'Tis a pity I chose not to attend. Your attempts at dancing never cease to amuse."

Eroth glared. "Friends do not amuse themselves with the other's suffering."

" _Mellon nin_ , who was the one quite incapable of restraining their laughter that night in the kitchens?"

"I concede," replied she with a complacent smirk, "there is little more pleasant than watching the Prince of the Woodland Realm admonished by the cook."

"Ay," Legolas said, raising an eyebrow, "while his worthy friend remained hidden behind the cabinet."

"To my defence, I'd saved the stolen goods for you." Even though, Eroth recalled, the seed cake was rather flattened, and the cherries bruised, after their subsequent escape.

Her friend sent her a look of incredulity as he reached into his tunic, drawing out a wooden baton. The ellon held it against the flame of a lamp until it kindled, a side of his cheek ablaze with light, and Eroth shifted to the side as he leant past her to light another.

For as long as Eroth Dree could remember, she had known Legolas better than any other in the realm. Perhaps she had known him before they called themselves friends.

Before that there had been observations in the library, watching him trace paths of ink with the tip of his quill. When he chanced to look up and meet her stare, he would turn his head, abandon the ink, and stab his pen into his page. Many a mortal's life ago, she asked him why he was not afraid of her, like the others. It was as if he loved not the world and hated it less – she could not unravel him with her stare.

It was long before she decided to do something about it. When she did, Eroth realised, she was wrong about him.

Legolas could imitate a dozen types of birdsong. He held his bow like a friend, was a master of clandestine passages and, when she wasn't looking, drew tangles of ink-black ivy upon her books. He told her that his mother lived in the night sky, and that he hated the curious cornsilk tint of his hair.

When she was saddened, he tilted his head and took her hand and snuck her into the wonders of the King's larders.

So it all became a matter of _naturally._ Naturally they fought and bickered, plotted and pranked. Naturally they would scour every inch of the forest, slip into shadowed corners and attempt arduous climbs up the perilous rocks. Even as Eroth became an elleth overnight, growing her hair beyond a mop of unruly locks and allowing herself to be clothed in silken gowns, in their meetings among the trees they were surely ageless.

Reaching over, Legolas parted the leafy canopy above them, revealing a starry night sky. The light of the moon shone through the opening and became one with his upturned features. Here he was, hazy and ethereal as a winter's dream. Here he was, arrogant and strange and insufferably roguish.

"'Tis midsummer already," he said in wonder.

Eroth twisted her fingers into the fabric of her dress. "Time flies, but its wings will tire. Do not dread it, Thranduilion."

"Dree," he murmured, slipping his hands from the leaves, "I cannot help it."

She sought his gaze in vain. "Come to the next ball. You will not find your betrothed among the trees and stars."

"The King will determine my match," the Prince murmured, "what good could my presence bring?"

"If 'tis of any interest, many ellyth had been disappointed by your absence."

He smiled amusedly in the dim light. "Is that so?"

The elleth wrinkled her nose. "I suppose they dote on golden hair and blue eyes."

"I would think that I have more qualities than that."

"Indeed, and a royal birth."

Ungracious as ever, the ellon merely smirked and tossed an object in her direction. Eroth caught the article inches from her nose, turning it over in her hands. It was a roll of honeyed bread, a little dried, but she cared not for its condition when the scent was so pleasant. Legolas had already bitten into his bread, his eyes downcast, evidently intending to bury the subject.

"And where, may I ask, is my portion?" Leaves rustled and a figure dropped down silently before them.

"Greetings Feredir," Legolas exclaimed, deftly unfolding a brown package to reveal the remains of the loaf, "you finally grace us with your presence."

A curl of his lip showed his displeasure, "I was detained."

"I may have glimpsed your dance with a certain elleth," said Eroth, biting down thoughtfully on her bread, "I chose not to interrupt you."

"Please do so next time." Feredir sighed, accepting the roll and tearing off a part himself. "She was rather too… insistent."

Eroth acknowledged the request with a tilt of her head. A crease formed between her brows. "What was the finding you talked of, Feredir?"

"I have it on me-" the ellon replied, "-here, take it – hold it under the light. I found it on Balthoron's desk when I was searching for Eroth in her house."

"You looked through my father's study?" Eroth interjected, passing the piece of parchment to Legolas.

Feredir evaded her eyes and continued, "it had evidently been delivered by a messenger. The information seems to be sensitive, considering how it was written in code."

Legolas tilted his head, "and you think that I am able to read it?"

"You're the Prince of the Woodland Realm, Thranduilion," Eroth murmured, "May we see it now? My interest has been roused."

The light of day had long since slumbered and a melancholic darkness draped itself heavily around the forest, while shadows shivered at the edges of the warm glow cast by the flames of the lanterns. In their fascination the friends had not noticed that they were now deep in the stomach of the night.

Carefully, Legolas wiped the wooden planks dry with the edge of his sleeve before he laid the piece of parchment down before their avid eyes. " _Quella_ ," he exclaimed softly, "rather an important message, this seems to be." Gently smoothing out the edges, he studied the obscure symbols scrawled onto its surface.

Moments of tense expectation passed before the ellon lifted his eyes towards his friends. "Well?" Eroth asked intently.

"It reads," Legolas said slowly, "Erebor and the Lake Town are in desolation. Beware of the Great Serpent of the North."

"Dragon fire!" the elleth hissed. So silent and so tranquil was the night at Greenwood, yet who could guess that just beyond the forest was a town submerged in flames, and a mountain rising alone under a tear streaked sky?

"May the Valar help them," Legolas confirmed, his voice tight, "dwarf and man alike."

A fleeting shadow passed across the parchment. Screeching, a flock of forest birds dove down and overwhelmed the space momentarily with a chaos of flapping wings. They threw themselves back against the trees. By the time the birds had scattered, they were thrown into darkness.

"Legolas? The matches – " Eroth blinked when a fierce light kindled in front of her eyes. Legolas moved the flame away, and bright patterns clouded her vision.

"Do you have the message, Feredir?"

There was a slight pause, then a bout of scrambling. "I have it here."

The brightness faded and the elleth found that the lanterns were relighted. She held out her hand. "Give it to me and I will put it back onto my father's desk."

Feredir pressed the parchment into her palm. "Death by fire-drake," he murmured, "what a bitter end."

"Will Greenwood know?" Eroth asked. She rolled back her sleeve to tuck the object in the curve of her arm. "It will be necessary."

"The King will announce it when it is deemed appropriate," Legolas replied, "and I suppose he does not yet know about it."

* * *

Balthoron studied his King. With hands clasped attentively in front on the desk and a regal spine, the King had become the epitome of intimidation and courtly politeness in rivalling measures. The First Advisor met his hooded eyes and found that he could not pierce the facade of equanimity there.

Balthoron had known him for many an Age, and had been one to watch with approval as Thranduil perfected the mask. The Advisor still remembered a solemn child who had immersed himself in books, disappeared into the forest for days on end, and hid a long, pale knife under his pillow.

"Well. What may be the case?"

 _Ah, but the tone is strained. Too smooth, like silk over the rocks._ "My King," Balthoron approached the twisted wood of the desk, "Smaug has returned from the North. The Dwarves of Erebor are scattered."

He had expected silence, and so he folded steady hands across his robes, waiting for the hush to wear thin. And it would. The King's eyes were downcast, a muscle working upon his brow, before the foot of the great chair creaked; Thranduil rose thoughtfully, his sharp features shrouded in shadow.

"I assume the dragon is contained?"

"Smaug now slumbers inside the Lonely Mountain, with all its riches beneath it."

"What of Lake Town?"

"'Tis in ruins, and the people live in fear. The place is but food for the dragon."

Balthoron twisted his lip. His world under the King was a marsh of fear and greed, and in such a world he revelled – but he could not forget the taste of death. He would not watch mortal life tainted by the blemish of a dragon's breath.

"My King, I propose to lead a group of our kind to settle there. We may aid the survivors and rebuild Lake Town. The people would need medical aid as well as food and shelter."

"That will be necessary. We engage in trade with Lake Town, and their disposition is important," Thranduil turned to look at his advisor, his eyes shuttered and unreadable beneath dark brows. "But you may not go. There will be many decisions following in which Mirkwood will need your assistance, and the army you manage will be restless and without leader in your absence."

"Which is why I will take them with me."

The King's eyes narrowed. "You will take an army with you to settle at Lake Town?"

Balthoron could sense the King's suspicion. He had to tread carefully. "Only to help Lake Town recover by aiding the people…and the Dwarves of Erebor."

"You pity the dwarves?" Behind his impassive words lay a tenor of derision.

Balthoron fell silent, and did not falter under cold scrutiny.

"I should not refuse you," Thranduil circled the desk. "You have been a loyal advisor. In return I will consider your… _offer_ , but precautions need be taken first."

Balthoron smiled in satisfaction. He expected no more from his cautious King, and he knew that he would not be detained for long. "I am grateful, my King."

"Balthoron, you may go." The scent of wine heaved upon his senses as he left; the King would await no rest tonight.


	9. The gift and its giver

**Chapter 9 – The gift and its giver**

Her feet were framed by a smudge of midsummer sky. Dress hitched up over her knees and ankles dangling from the windowsill, Eroth turned the object over between her hands. The hair clasp was crafted from a rare type of dark wood, its smooth surface disturbed only by a small, blue stone imbedded in the centre. She narrowed her eyes and held her palms up. The morning light glinted upon it.

There came a patter of footsteps beyond the window. Eroth shot up from the bed, tossing the clasp to the side and trailed slippered feet towards the mirror. Her head of braids had been smudged by the pillow.

"It seems our lady has awoken, Legolas."

"Ay, and 'tis fortunate too. Feredir, I worried she'd never emerge."

In the mirror her reflection quirked an eyebrow. Eroth clambered over the bed and hooked a finger through the string by the window. "I thought you knew better than to disturb a maiden in her bedchamber, Thranduilion."

She drew the shutter down. The braids she would have to leave; there was one matter she ought to hide from prying eyes. Knees tipping into the blankets she hunted among her belongings for the sought artifice. With the shutters drawn the room was purple and shadowed, and her friends' muffled retorts outside did not ease the business. Her ankle caught on something curved and the hair clasp clattered to the ground.

Eroth stilled, contemplating. Then, retrieving it carefully from the floorboards, she placed it within a nearby drawer where it rested upon a folded piece of parchment.

A sliver of pale light appeared along the wall.

Eroth turned sharply, and two pairs of eyes ducked down beneath the sill. " _Oh_ _Elbereth_ , please step inside."

The shutter creaked open. As her friends entered, ducking through the window, she pressed her back against the sharp corner of the cabinet. "Did you sate your curiosity?"

Legolas, upon exchanging a glance with Feredir, settled back against a wall. His lids had fell down, and through lowered lashes he looked at her, a picture of innocence. The other elf shifted from the edge of a chair.

"So it is indeed a gift?"

"Which belonging of mine," Eroth tilted her head, "are you referring to?"

Feredir smiled. "The most recent one."

He started for the drawer. She bent an elbow over the cabinet's surface and blocked its opening, then leant her chin upon her palm. The ellon moved to the side, and she did also. With nonchalance she pushed herself back onto the chest of drawers, kicked her ankles against the front, and Feredir stilled. A smile of smugness passed over her features.

"Who is it?"

 _Her friends evidently had not developed a concept of personal space._ Eroth's lip turned down. The stains of sunlight swam across the opposite wall.

"No elf you would approve of, but 'tis none of your business." She turned hard eyes to Legolas. "And none of _yours_."

" _Ai_ , I did not say it was," Legolas said.

But the elleth glanced at him, a hint of bewilderment surfacing, and twisted her face away. "If you must know, it's but a hair clasp. A token of affection."

He hummed in acknowledgment. Feredir said, "who may we not approve – "

" _Antolle ulua sulrim_ Idhrenion." _(much wind pours from your mouth)_

She dropped from the cabinet with a frown, and Feredir stared after her in wonder. "Dree – "

"'Tis woodcraft. With a gem – the precious kind. Thranduilion, let me pass."

Legolas stepped to the side. She strode past him but he clasped her arm, brows furrowing. " _Mellon nin_ , what troubles you? We shall leave."

"I dare say I know," Feredir smirked. "But come, the morning wears on. Let us not waste it on such petty things."

Eroth shook her arm away. It was pleasant to be sought for; she would not let them ruin _her_ gift. Legolas' palm hovered at her shoulder, his lips parted as if for speech. His gaze remained clear and bright. She hated that she had to tilt her head up to meet it. The elleth lifted her chin.

"To the festival, then."

At the cabinet she jerked open a drawer, turned the clasp between her fingers and pinned it slowly, deliberately to her hair. It was carved with precision; Eroth smiled. "It appears, _mellon_ ," she drawled sweetly, "that I have an admirer."

* * *

The vast grounds of the Palace were never cultivated. In the humid air slept a beauty untamed by elven hands. Small openings, their perimeter not exceeding that of the rim of a goblet, had formed naturally in the cave-like ceiling, illuminating with brilliance the Woodland Realm beneath ground. Pale stone pillars rose from the soil and rock, like age-old trees, and rivers cut through the horizon to tumble fiercely into barren darkness. Over their clear currents arched elegant bridges; bridges which faded into a myriad of paths and spiralled into all directions, and which were some of them chiselled roughly into vertical surfaces so dangerously that it was almost impossible for any mortal to tread.

The Wood-Elves feared no risk in using those paths. Having lived for long among this precarious landscape, they passed nimbly through the Palace's land. Oropher, the former King, had opened the large areas of the underground realm to all Elves under his reign – Sindarin and Silvan alike. Thus, it was beneath the ground that the majority of Greenwood's elven settlement lay – the marketplace, the baths, and a vast array of stores.

Transformed, however, was the palace now. The beginning of the midsummer festivals bode a full half-dozen days of celebrations. Radiant banners were strung between the pillars, dipping like reflections into the bright hues of the stalls and tents below. A soft melody weaved itself between the mirthful din of elven discourse, one of which was taking on a very interesting topic.

"Is that Arphen?" Eroth whispered to a dark-haired ellon, voice low with incredulity.

Feredir propelled the elleth to the side, gaining a brief view of a rather intimate moment between two elves locked in an embrace by the apple store. "By the stars, so it is her," he exclaimed, and bothered not to take the same precautions in being discrete.

"And who is on the other end of this connecting of lips?" interjected Legolas.

The elleth launched an attempt to circumvent a group of passing ellyth, but with no avail. "I cannot see. Feredir?"

"I cannot tell," Feredir replied.

The friends were overwhelmed by the flow of the crowds, and the subject of their attention was obscured by a wave of hair and silk. Eroth found herself grasped by the wrist, by whom she could not tell, and pulled through the masses until they reached a relaxing in the flow of festivities. She followed her friends into the shadow cast by a large pillar, smoothing down the silk of her dress.

"Do you think it had been the wine?" Eroth said.

"If you mean the personal moment which we had witnessed," her friend muttered, "at least one of them were intoxicated."

"This much is apparent from all that unnecessary passion," Feredir added darkly.

The elleth wrinkled her nose. "With that grip, she looked about to tug his hair out."

Feredir smirked, an ominous look entering his eyes. "I know," he said slyly, looking pointedly at the ornament in Eroth's plait, "that a certain elf may want to kiss _you_."

"Idhrenion," she exclaimed in outrage, "you are too old to talk nonsense."

Legolas sniggered beside her. "Would you rather he was in earnest?"

"I'd prefer it if both of you kept your mouths shut, in earnest or not."

Nonetheless the elleth did not payed no heed to Legolas' arm slung around her shoulders, and none of the friends cared to refrain from talking as they forsook the shade and wandered on through the booths.

* * *

 _Such defiant, mirthful eyes. Each time she glanced his way the ellon was mesmerized by that rich gaze, knowing with dread that the longer he stared, the deeper he would fall into a dizzying abyss. She challenged him, taunted him to a dance of no music, laughed in delight at the thrill of the chase. But, then, the ellon had caught her. The brush of his lips against her hands was eternal; in that moment he knew that she was his. He thought she would always be his._

The King started, fumbling in blind haste for his wine. His fingers closed tightly around the gold of a goblet, and he drained its dregs in one gasp. Thranduil did not know how he had let _those_ memories slip from control – they had not plagued him so ruthlessly for many years. And now they had shattered against his skull.

He leapt from his seat and began to pace the room, hoping that his feverish tread could drown out, if but a little, the notes of her laughter.

Abruptly, the King stilled. The flames from the fireplace danced in his eyes, curling upon themselves like ghostly limbs. _Why_ , _by the Valar_ , did he feel so ruinously alone? After all, he had his kin, and among them his only son.

 _Legolas._ Thranduil wanted, desperately, for his son to be able to feel for an elleth as he had felt for his Queen. It grieved him to imagine that Legolas would never taste the elixir of love. Upon many lonely evenings had Thranduil been tempted to relieve his son of his duty in marriage, but every time he had caught himself with an iron grip. Love was an elixir and a poison. An inchoate idea had long since been dwelling in his thoughts, and the events of the recent days meant that it was not time for him to play the father. Hissing, the King stalked towards the table for another bottle of wine.

 _May the Valar help him._

* * *

His two friends exchanged a wary glance as Feredir paused outside a stall promising a rare array of medicinal plants. They were aware of his fascination in the field and was familiar with Feredir's healers' tent during his working hours, yet they could both freely confess that they had little interest in the art of healing.

Upon a disapproving look from the store owner, Eroth withdrew her hand from a small brown root she had been toying with in idleness. Tapping Feredir lightly, she indicated that she was to leave, unwilling to disturb his academic rapture.

It was evening, and the diminishing light shed desperate shadows across the ground, weakly illuminating the way for the few who still lingered in the Palace's grounds. Down those paths the elleth started, past the jewellers and the spice-dealers closing their stalls, whereupon she lingered to inhale the rich fragrances.

It was at this time, that a shadow which had followed furtively behind proved to be corporeal, for Eroth had felt a light touch on her arm.

The scents in the air vanished like a candle snuffed in the dark. With a sense of dread the elleth turned and offered a faint smile to the ellon who had approached her. She traced out a familiar face in the dimness. "Istuon," Eroth greeted quietly.

Istuon took her hand and kissed it chastely, "my lady."

"You may call me Eroth," said lady replied uneasily.

Istuon bowed his head briefly. "I thought-Eroth-that…"

His tone became halting. The elleth tilted her head, slightly bewildered by the strain in his movements. "What is it, Istuon? Is something wrong?"

He seemed on the cusp of speech, but his gaze caught at something in Eroth's hair. His lips curved upwards. _His gift; he had seen it._ She wanted to tell him that he'd misunderstood, that she had never intended – but she _had_ , had she not? She'd fitted the wooden clasp to her braid to prove _something_.

Eroth almost started when she felt her hand being grasped in the settling darkness, pushed down an urge to throw her arm back, let warm fingers lace between hers. She was tugged forward, and was aware of Istuon's voice beside her ear, "my lady, I would like to talk to you."

"Of course," she said, flustered and somewhat overwhelmed. Istuon smiled appreciatively at her, and Eroth sensed herself being led away in the direction of a clutter of trees in the distance.

 _So_ , she realized with distant trepidation, _he intends to speak with me alone_.


	10. Unfold

**Chapter 11 - Unfold**

Not often was the house of the King's advisor visited at the crack of dawn, and never to the purpose of the young Elves crouched beneath one of its windows, manifestly engaged in a bout of fierce conversation.

"She could be awake. You know her; she will maim us if she finds out."

"You were the one to propose this scheme, Feredir. Now is not the time to doubt it," said the other.

The ellon addressed let out an uneasy breath, but objected no further. "We ought to be careful. Ensure that she is unconscious first."

His pale-haired friend nodded curtly to acknowledge the caution, before swinging one leg up onto the windowsill. Placing a hand on the frame, he pulled himself up, and balanced nimbly on the crooked ledge. The action was carried out soundlessly, which made one suspect that such business was not unfamiliar to him.

Upon stealing a glance at the bed across the room, he confirmed that the subject of their discussion was indeed asleep. Cautiously, he slipped from his perch and onto the floorboards, before turning to signal to his associate. Perceiving his friend's affirmative gesture, Feredir too scaled the elevation and joined the ellon in the room.

"Make haste," Legolas hissed, "where did she put the letter?"

Holding up a hand in response, Feredir crossed the room to approach a chest of drawers pushed up against the wall. Smoothing his fingers upon the worn surface, he muttered, "I remember – it was here."

His fingers had stilled above a small drawer. Legolas, who had followed beside him, drew it open softly. Weighted by an ink vial was a piece of folded parchment, which the conspirators turned over in their hands to scrutinise with curiousity.

"Read it," Feredir urged, glancing up briefly at the sleeping elleth. "Quick."

They studied the letter's contents with growing incredulity. Legolas, who had been reading over his friend's shoulder, raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I certainly would not wager much upon his penmanship," he mused.

"What did you expect, Thranduilion? Infatuation makes the best of us fools."

"I would not have thought –" Legolas began erewhile, but his speech trailed into silence. There had been a shifting of air behind him, subtle enough to be mistaken for the wind, and yet -

 _"What are you doing?"_

The friends started at the new voice, turning to the speaker with barely concealed horror. The latter was sitting up in bed, her hair tousled with sleep, her brows furrowed.

"I wake up," Eroth said slowly, "when the sun has barely risen, and I find two persons in _my bedroom_. Rummaging, it seems-" she raised an eyebrow, "– through _my_ drawers.

"From my knowledge of aforementioned individuals," Eroth continued, rising from the bed, "they have no previous habit of breaching the regulations of privacy at ungodly hours, and therefore I may reasonably come to the conclusion that they are here _under no good intent_."

"Eroth –" Feredir began, somewhat flustered as the elleth advanced towards them, her eyes narrowing.

"What, then –" Eroth said quietly, heedless of her friends' efforts to stem her approach, "may I repeat, are you partaking in?"

Suddenly, her eyes fell to the parchment in their hands, and realisation flashed across her features.

The elleth had barely taken another step when her friends started into action, taking advantage of her sleep riddled state by making their escape through the windows.

If Eroth had not been fully lucid before, the flight of the guilty individuals certainly served to rouse her into action. In a fluid motion she had leapt out after them, easily trailing their clumsy retreat into the trees.

Perhaps because one was spurred on by anger, and the others hasty with culpability, the elleth gained on the companions after no lengthy chase. Erewhile, the offenders found themselves cornered on a suspended platform, one of many built within the complexities of the Elven settlement.

"Eroth," said Legolas, after a tense silence, "we held no ill intent."

Eroth's gaze never flickered. "I see."

" _I_ held no intent at all," the dark-haired ellon added, "Legolas was the one set upon the plan."

If looks could scald, the one the Prince shot at Feredir held enough heat to do so. But the elleth's ire had found its target, and she motioned towards the ground with a tilt of her head.

"Well, Legolas, let us settle affairs below."

With her nightgown hanging from her shoulders and feet bare, his friend hardly looked a vengeful spirit. Yet something in her voice gave him pause. Legolas had not thought a mere letter could be so important to her – she was _Eroth_ , after all. And Eroth would never look twice at an admirer but from below her nose. Yet she was grave now, grey eyes hard, and as he watched she glanced away and leapt from the platform.

Legolas stepped back, on the cusp of offering the damned letter to its owner – yet somehow, he had to know the rest of its contents. There must be a reason Eroth cherished it thus. And so he followed her down through the branches, towards the gathering mists at the ground. Eroth was beside him when his feet touched the ground, silent. The ellon turned to face his friend.

"It was Istuon? I would never have guessed."

Eroth leant an arm against the bark, regarding him impassively. "Should that surprise you?"

The ellon's brows drew together. The change in her manner was already perplexing, but he did not want to believe that it was Istuon who could cause it. "You must remember his conduct; especially towards you."

"It is reasonable to forgive him for some minor offences several centuries ago."

"They were hardly minor offences, _mellon nin_."

"It matters not," Eroth replied quietly, stirring from her position to step towards him, "and if it did, it should not matter to you."

"Either way," she continued, moving closer, "it would be graciously appreciated –"

Eroth paused, her balance shifting, and the ellon uttered a cry of surprise. She had hooked his knees, her feet catching the spot with precision, so that they folded under him.

Kneeling down swiftly, she checked his fall and wrapped an arm around his neck, "– if you produced the letter. Directly."

"I do not have it," Legolas choked out.

"I don't believe you."

He was thrown backward, and found that within a dizzying instance his back was against the ground, and Eroth was leaning over him. It was a considerably uncomfortable position, and reminded him of the first time he had been rendered like this; except that in the former she had demanded to learn to fight, and in the next she had used those requested skills to render him thus.

Eroth pressed her fingers to his throat, but her touch was light – intended only to threaten. "How much have you seen?"

 _Enough to bring considerable irritation_. Flashing her a roguish smirk, he said, "only until the part where your _admirer_ compared your hair to… the setting sun."

She flushed with indignation, and Legolas took the opportunity to drag her arms sideways. When she lost her balance he was quick to flip their positions, pinning her wrists to the soil.

"I am sorry," he smirked, "I have need to withhold the letter."

Beneath him Eroth's skin was flushed, look turning murderous, but when they fixed on something behind him her eyes widened.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Thank you to all who have come across my story, and somehow stayed with it. I hope that it has brought you as much joy to read as it has for me to write it. Most of all, thank you to the people behind the kind favourites, follows and reviews. They never fail to brighten a dreary day._

 _ **shush child** : Really? I'm flattered :) Hope you enjoy the updates!_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : I'll be replying to your amazing reviews here to save you from navigating around in the site. I don't blame you for thinking that it was Legolas, I myself am guilty of some misleading in the earlier chapters (he does seem to care for his friend somewhat more than he realises). I agree; Eroth does not quite understand what relationships entail yet, so her so-called feelings towards her admirer may not be exactly justified. I hope that this chapter - and the next - clears it up a bit! PS: does the name Istuon ring a bell? _

_I'm glad you enjoyed the tiny insight into Thranduil's world. Yes - it is foreshadowing something, and the fact that love is on his mind is significant. I hope it worked!_

 _The protectiveness is indeed coming through; especially when you consider his 'curiosity' for the identity of the admirer in this chapter. There will be more where that comes from in later events as well :p As for the whispered words, I may have a plan to reveal them in a future scene. Again, I cannot stress enough how happy your feedback makes me, so thank you mellon nin!_


	11. Where They Drift

**Chapter 14 – Where They Drift**

Legolas watched as the elleth gathered her books, rolling up pieces of parchment with clinical actions. Even though her head was bent, he could see that her dark brows were furrowed, her fingers white with tension.

"What do you want?" Eroth spoke, and even her voice seemed tense, defensive.

The elleth was collecting her pens, and some wisps of hair escaped from her knot, curling at her cheekbones. Legolas reached out and smoothed the strands back lightly, retracting his hand before Eroth could react. She looked up at that, eyes narrowing.

"Chivalries will not earn my forgiveness, Thranduilion."

"There will not be a repeat of the events at dawn, that I have promised."

"The 'events at dawn'?" the elleth repeated incredulously, "is that the euphemism for your invasion of my privacy?"

"You have merely followed my choice of phrasing with one of your own, my friend."

"Is that significant, Thranduilion?"

"I was in earnest in telling you that I know not the cause of your anger, _mellon nin_."

The elleth's hands stilled. "Do you not?"

"You have the letter," Legolas murmured, "and you still have Istuon's favour."

"Istuon's favour, you say?" Eroth's tone was shuttered.

"What, _mellon nin_ , is it lost?"

The elleth met his gaze with a cool glare. "You could say."

Having gathered all her possessions from her desk, Eroth turned abruptly and made her way towards the door of the library. Her friend followed, matching her stride.

"Was it important to you?" He asked quietly.

"Wouldn't you want to know."

"Eroth?"

The elleth stopped.

"I am sorry."

She was silent, her breaths stirring loose strands of hair which fell across her face. "You do not have to be."

"I truly am, _mellon nin_. I should not interfere in your affairs."

"Well, it is no longer my affair."

"That is an ambiguous statement, Eroth," her features were hidden to him, so the ellon touched his fingers to her cheek, tilting her chin up. Her face was pale, the line of her jaw tense. He did not want her to look so shuttered, so distant from him; her silence unsettled him more than her fiery temper the morning before.

"Will you forgive me?"

Her grey eyes were searching. "What if I do?"

His hands trailed down her arms, taking her icy fingers between his. " _Mellon nin_."

Something like warmth flickered within her gaze. Almost haltingly, the elleth leaned up and touched her lips to his cheek. " _Uuma dela_." _(You need not worry)_

* * *

Beneath the ground, further even than the reach of ancient tree roots, lay the crooked corridors of the King's palace. The narrowest and darkest of those pathways had faded out of common memory, frequented only by patrolling guards and the guilty-minded. Remorse, too, troubled the mind of its latest visitor.

Tugging up the hood of her cloak, Eroth stepped into another deserted corridor. Pausing, she touched the damp stone of the wall, closing her eyes as she listened for any disturbances to the heavy silence. When none came, the elleth picked up a lantern from the ground, walking onwards into the dark. Erewhile, a stairway appeared beneath her feet, and Eroth followed the trickle of Elven voices to a narrow doorway. Quietly, she slid open the door and slipped behind it.

Once again, Eroth found herself in the library, where last Legolas had interrupted her studies, and humoured her with apologies she did not deserve. She was about to return to her desk when a figure, emerging from the other side of a hefty bookshelf, collided into her. A roll of parchment unwound, touched to the floor like a hurried kiss.

Eroth looked up, an apology trembling upon her lips, and beheld Istuon. The ellon stepped sharply away, hesitated, and refused to meet her gaze. She followed Istuon's look to the pen in her hand; it was of foreign make. The elleth must have caught it when it fell from the impact.

At a loss of how to steer the situation, Eroth extended the pen towards the ellon.

He pushed back her hand, "you can keep it."

The elleth watched as Istuon strode out haughtily, biting down on her lip. She flinched as the door swung back into its place, and clenched the object tighter between her fingers, the pen's nib cool against her palm.

 _She flushed with indignation, and Legolas took the opportunity to drag her arms sideways so that she lost her balance, using the momentum to flip their positions so that he pinned her to the ground._

 _Her look turned murderous, but when they fixed on something behind him, her eyes widened._

 _"_ _Istuon," she said._

 _Silence. "Istuon?" Eroth repeated, struggling from her friend's grip._

 _The ellon addressed moved out of the shadows, his face blanched. "Greetings, my lady. I would not have disturbed you had I known your current…involvement."_

 _The words were uttered in a spiteful haste and, having delivered them, Istuon turned sharply to leave. Legolas, perceiving the escalation of the situation, helped the elleth from the ground. Sparing no glance towards her friend, Eroth hurried after Istuon and stemmed his retreat. With frustration, she observed that seemed like all her friends had developed a penchant for wanton, unreadable behaviour overnight. The latter tried to swerve away, but Eroth stopped him with a hand on his arm._

 _"_ _Where are you going, Istuon?" She hissed, half in vexation at the morning's events, half in bewilderment. "You seem angered. What has made you thus?"_

 _"_ _Oh, nothing at all," said the ellon bitterly, "do not expect me to mind."_

 _"_ _I had not, until you acted so rashly."_

 _"_ _Why do you not go back to him, Eroth? You have had no affection for me; there is no need to feign them now."_

 _"_ _Go back to whom?" the elleth demanded, stepping back a few paces. Surely he did not mean the damned letter-stealing Sindar? "Legolas? He can find his way back, if the Elf knows what's good for him. He's got it coming for reading your letters – and Feredir, too."_

 _Istuon's eyes hardened. "You showed them my letter."_

 _The elleth's hand slipped from his arm, and her look turned pleading. It was mortification enough for her friends to read it; now it's writer knew. It seemed, too, that he did not particularly appreciate the act._

 _"You do not understand me," she said. "You refuse to see."_

 _"_ _I have seen enough."_

Eroth turned the page in her book, tracing a finger impatiently over the lettering. Istuon's pen lay on the table beside her hand. The elleth quirked an eyebrow.

 _No more admirers_ , she decided. _Empty words, were that of those who spoke of the joys of attraction and commitment. No such sensations had swayed her._

 _And none will sway her yet, of that she was determined._


	12. Elderflower

**Chapter 14 – Elderflower**

"I could sense it," he explained, "concealed by the frivolous pleasures of youth, there had been a certain glint in her eyes – or shadow beneath her brows. It reflected none else but a calculating ruthlessness, buried yet beneath her genial nature and untainted memory."

A sigh followed, low and bleak. The King snapped the stem of an elderflower, holding the drooping bloom before him. He studied it in the morning light with almost painful rapture as he continued. "She has not had cause to frown often. Her conscience is lucid, but it will not remain long so.

"The elleth would hate deeply and forgive with reluctance, yet such a will would be much needed with bearing such a blemished history as Greenwood's. She is neither impetuous-" absently, the King caressed the stem of the flower, "-nor brutal. The light and grace within her would lead this Realm through poverty and abundance alike."

A wanton wind suddenly swept through the clearing; sunlight scattered, and a similar shadow passed over the elf's brow. "Eroth's attachment to our son is a source of comfort – yet no ordinary bond withstands the deluge that this long-brewing storm will bring."

Thranduil stopped; the silence of the clearing mocked him. What was he doing here, talking to himself like a befuddled old man? It must be that bush of elderflowers. They had always been Eruante's favourite. Such a secret as the identity of the new Princess of the Woodland Realm could not be trusted with the living, so the King had turned to the dead. And yet, in instances like this, he was almost convinced that she had always been with him, elusive as a scent lost in a breeze. Ay, as he inhaled deeply, lids fluttering shut, he could have been certain he had caught a faint, sweet fragrance – her own.

The King opened his eyes, and glared with spiteful hatred at the delicate flower in his grasp. It had only been the elderflower, it's deceiving smell igniting him with hope; frantic hope. _Where was his crown?_ With dread, Thranduil's fingers closed around the coil of slender twigs, and he placed the ornament upon his brow.

He needed a meeting with his council, a roil of foolish and righteous voices, where his thoughts would be consumed by the din of heated Elven discourse. _Well,_ he thought dryly, _there was quite a topic to discuss_.

* * *

Eroth whirled around when she heard a voice behind her, quickly schooling her features into an impassive expression. She stepped forward, nudging something behind a mop of grass with her foot. "Well, Feredir?"

The ellon did not notice the movement. A quiver was slung across his back, a bow in his hands, and he was absently testing the tension in the bowstrings. "Your father sent for you. He seemed troubled."

"Am I required immediately?"

"Ay _mellon_ ," Feredir replied, "'tis unfortunate for you. I am to meet Legolas in the archery fields, and you will not be there to witness his defeat."

The elleth smiled. "'Tis a pity indeed. I have not witnessed a miracle in a long time."

Feredir gave her a pointed look before turning back towards the path, where the noon sun was tempting coils of heat up to haunt the long grass. Eroth watched him spring onto a low bough and hook his bow over an overhanging branch. He began to swing a leg over the trunk.

"Wait," she called. "Have you heard of the meeting this morn?"

Feredir ascended to the next branch, pausing. "I have."

"What did they speak of; do you know?"

"Urgent matters, I suppose," replied the ellon vaguely, "your father attended."

"I see." The elleth lifted a hand to bid him goodbye, and her friend disappeared into the summer's foliage.

She was alone again. In the grass glistened a small blue gem embedded within a wooden clasp, which she bent to retrieve. Her fingers probed the grass around it, and closed around more objects: a letter, somewhat tattered, and a single feathered pen. Eroth picked up the scattered articles, studying them with an expression half of resignation, half of relief, before kneeling down beside a nearby stream. Her hands unclosed; the objects, those tokens of affection and disappointment, slipped from her grasp and were submerged within the currents of the woodland creek.

She stood; brushed the soil from her tunic. "I will not dwell."

The journey home was short, and when she stood outside her father's study, she realised that it was perhaps shorter than she would have liked. Eroth was no fool; she knew the meeting had touched upon, if not centred around, the plight of Smaug's desolation. To be thus shortly summoned – it was not be hard to believe that her father had somehow gotten swept into this ill-fated storm.

Slowly, the elleth parted the curtains to Balthoron's study. " _Atar_?"

The First Advisor must have been pacing before she entered. Manuscripts, files assembled with thin ropes and thread-bound books littered the floor in teetering piles, evidently having been pushed aside previous to that activity. The desk, at the present covered with a large map, was ornamented with a stool of fine walnut wood, while beside it rolls of parchment were stuffed into a woven basket, some so hastily deposited that they lay drolly on the floor beside it. Distantly, Eroth noted that the fir tree branch which had been for the past few days tentatively reaching for the study's window, was clinically snapped off.

Upon hearing her voice, Balthoron looked up. "My daughter," he smiled; but tiredness and worry drained it of its mirth.

Eroth stepped cautiously into the room. "What is the matter, father? How are affairs in Erebor?"

Wariness flashed across the father's features. "Eroth, come – you may sit."

"I will stand, father."

Balthoron's eyebrow rose fractionally. "Greenwood has come to a decision. Lake Town has sought help; we will provide them with it. In a fortnight a company will be dispatched, and they are to travel to Lake Town to settle there until its economy has recovered. I will supervise them."

Eroth stepped forward; her foot hit a pile of documents, and she stilled, brows furrowing. "Father, you will be endeavouring to rebuild Smaug's destruction?"

"That is correct."

The elleth sucked in a breath. "Can I go?"

"Eroth, it is not your duty."

Balthoron had stiffened, and his eyes were hard. Lifting her chin, Eroth tried to keep her gaze steady. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror; her clothing was dishevelled, coppery waves of hair escaping from her plait – not exactly the ideal appearance of a someone pleading their cause. She resisted the urge to straighten her tunic.

"I _feel_ that it is my duty, father. It is my duty because it would be the deemed right _here_ -" she touched a hand to her temple "and _here_ -" she placed her hand upon her heart.

"How so, little one?"

"My head tells me that I am skilled enough for such a journey; I will contribute to its the purpose. My heart teaches of honour and compassion, and somewhere faraway a desolation lies. I need say no more."

Moments crawled. Balthoron extended his hands, and Eroth's breathing froze. "So be it," he said, " _detholalle_." _(It is your choice)_

 _Author's Note:_

 _ **Guest**_ _: Ah... I wouldn't want to bet against you on that matter ;)_


	13. Calling of the Road

**Chapter 15 – The Calling of the Road**

The end of midsummer came with a clouded sky. Something about the hours before thunder always made her feel like the rain was in her bones. Only the determined and the insensitive went into the stables in Greenwood's long summers, and on such a day the sultry heat lingered, sickly, upon her skin and plastered strands of hair to her neck. Eroth stopped at the far end of the stalls, sliding a bulky pouch from her hip as she gently unclasped the gate.

"Hush Haladar," she murmured as the horse scraped the ground with its hooves. " _sana sine_." _(take this)_

The elleth drew out a tangerine from the pouch, laughing quietly when Haradar nudged her hand with its muzzle and snorted out a flurry of warm steam. "Be patient _usquener_ ," said she, withdrawing the fruit, "let me peel it for you first." _(smelly one)_

Haradar merely looked at her with tranquil eyes. Eroth pulled out a pocket knife from her riding boots and flicked the blade open deftly, "do not mind me Haradar. You do not really smell; I have bathed you well."

When the elleth had skimmed off the orange's skin with her knife, the horse nuzzled forwards again. This time, Eroth opened her palm, and the tangerine was consumed eagerly. "Let us hope that this blade remains only for peeling oranges," the elleth muttered, sliding the knife away.

She was adjusting the horse's leather browband when she sensed the presence of another, murmured a cool greeting. She moved to test the length of the stirrups, combing through Haradar's dark mane with her free hand.

"Dree," the other replied, "where are you heading?"

She jerked the leather away as if burned. Her throat became dry. "What brings you here, Thranduilion? Have you come to say your partings?"

The Prince was leaning languidly against an empty stable, rolling up his shirtsleeves in to ward off the heat. He tilted his head in enquiry. "What journey do you embark on?"

"A journey far from our realm." Eroth's fingers faltered as she tightened the saddle, but she allowed no further signs to betray her. "I will join the departing company."

Perhaps out of cowardice, she had not planned to tell him. They studied each other silently. Cornered, she felt the space between them sour. But Legolas flicked upon the latch and came through the gate, and the space churned and became something new. At last he spoke.

"To the Lonely Mountain, Eroth?"

"Ay, we follow the River Running."

He had her backed against the gate, no corner for mistruth. His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Then I will come with you."

"Have a tangerine Legolas."

The look in his eyes eased. "Dree?"

Laughing, she lifted her hands to his shoulders and pushed him back. Fumbling around the pouch, she tossed him an orange. "Have one _mellon nin_."

"Careful my friend, your dimples show."

She ignored him and moved to her steed. "Saddle Nimesin. We do not have long."

With Haradar trotting beside her, nudging at Legolas' grey horse, the road in her head seemed to welcome a lot more sunlight. A feathery drizzle was falling, and Legolas was feeding Nimesin her orange, offering the fruit up segment by segment. The horse snorted and engulfed his outstretched palm. The ellon laughed softly, his eyes bright as a cloudless sky, then wiped his hand on his cloak.

The sensation in her chest passed as quickly as a summer's storm; she did not ponder over it. "Will the King permit this?"

Her friend drew his hood up, his eyes on the dark mass of horses and riders assembling in the distance. "Greenwood confines me no longer. I have come of age, and will be free to wander."

Like a candle lighted there came a look to his eyes, thoughtful. Eroth said, "The road calls to me as it does for you. This longing – it grows in my heart."

"We will naturally travel together in the years to come. There is no place under the stars that we cannot dwell."

Legolas spoke softly, with near reverence, as he turned his dark eyes upon her. The force behind his keen gaze almost rendered Eroth breathless, and she tightened her hold on Haradar's bridle.

"Remember your duty, Thranduilion."

 _You will be travelling with your betrothed, not a mere childhood friend._

They walked on, the unspoken words lingering in the air and pursuing their hasty steps.

* * *

The leader of the departing company acknowledged their presence with a curt nod and an implicit inquiry in the arch of his brow. Arandrin had not been informed of additional members to his group, but since it was not his right to question, he dismissed his incredulity and did not do so.

Arandrin assessed the young Elves before him. The Prince was capable indeed; he had tutored him on the art of the sword before the King himself took over his lessons, and never saw a more diligent pupil. The elleth with the auburn braid he recognised as Balthoron's daughter, and none of the First Advisor's children would ever falter _without_ a weapon. It was rumoured that in his youth Balthoron had never seen a defeat in close combat. Yet – he wondered how this delicate elleth would fare with a blade in her hand and orcs at her heel; the guard pursed his lips, and motioned for his new wards to mount their steeds.

At the head of the group was a figure shrouded in a dark cloak, both man and horse as black as a moonless night. His carriage was proud, and severe grey eyes surveyed the gathering before resting upon Eroth. They softened. The elleth inclined her head in respect, and her father acknowledged the salute with a slight tilt of his hood before he turned away. This was a company departing to a town where a dragon was its only guardian; there was no time for frivolities.

On the edge of the walkway, with a gaze sharp as a blade and a crown glinting in the weak light, stood the Elvenking. Two guards shadowed him at the entrance. He did not search for his son among the dark mass of hoods and horses; doing so would trigger the snare of sentiment. Thranduil could only have faith.

A harsh whistle tore through the humid air; the signal for departure was given. Silently, the Elves before him raised their fists in a parting salute. The Elvenking returned the gesture and, as gravely as he had come, left the gates in a churn of golden robes.

 _Author's Note:_

 **Guest** : In all honesty, me neither! Tragedy, dragon-fire and pesky mortals - Eroth has a lot to learn.

 **legolasgreenleaf15** _(on Chap. 12)_ : Reading your review brought a lot of happiness to my day. There is indeed a lot of fire in Eroth, and I am sure that we will be seeing that again. I was a little unsure about the cliffhanger, so your feedback definitely made me feel better (there may be another cliffhanger coming soon. In fact, we are entering quite a mountainous region). On the topic of jealousy - well, some things are better left unsaid ;) I'm glad to see you back again!

 **legolasgreenleaf15** _(on Chap.13)_ : I'm sorry for making you mad - it had to be done! It's sort of symbolic that Legolas would inadvertently be the one to end their acquaintance isn't it? I'm always overjoyed when someone appreciates the cuteness; although I have to say, this is only the start :p I haven't decided yet whether or not to drag Istuon back into the scene, but now that you suggested...

 **legolasgreenleaf15** _(on Chap.14)_ : What am I planning? Well, I never said that the previous plot was completely discarded... As for the journey to Lake Town, I hope that you have found satisfactory answers in this chapter (and the next)! As always, until next time mellon!


	14. Mask of Rain

**Chapter 15 – Mask of Rain**

Gone were the high azure skies and the golden rays, which had blessed the emerald canopy on their first days of travel to reveal the delicate veins in summer's leaves. The strains of distant birdsong had ceased to lift their spirits, for the sweet notes were drowned out by the ruthless rain, which seeped through the branches overhead and cast a dreary darkness over the group. With the loss of their song, conversation suffocated, and all withdrew into the shadow of their hoods, alone to their own troubled reflections.

Two days into their journey, when the crumbling forest path had at last been found, whereupon it crackled and clinked against the horses' hooves, an uncanny fog gathered, and obscured it once more. A woodland fog, as many of the Wood-Elves knew, was more than a white, creeping spectre. There was a sickly air which shadowed its visits; something stifling, unpleasant about its pallid fingers. The Elves remained silent.

As day drew on, Eroth found herself searching for her friend among the procession. She could no longer rely on the flash of golden hair under an indigo hood; all colours appeared grey through the rain and mist. She smoothed a hand over Haradar's damp mane, turning to an Elf riding beside her.

"You are a guard, my lord?"

The ellon slowed the pace of his horse. "Ay, my lady. I joined the Home Guard three summers ago. Forgive me; I do not recall you from our patrols."

"'Tis no wonder, I am no member of the Guard," Eroth replied. "Do you trust this path?"

"My experience is limited, but I believe that this path is correct. We have never strayed far from the River Running; I could hear its rushing waters last morn."

"I had not meant the route." Eroth felt an inexplicable rush of frustration; she tried to mask the harshness in her tone. "The fog feels filthy, and the very air seems tight. Has it ever been so on your patrols?"

"Nay, it has not. But Greenwood is vast, my lady, and wild. One cannot say what lurks within such a forest."

Eroth's reply died in her throat. A hush had passed through the company; there was a deathly pause. Then, cutting through the still air, came a faint cry of alarm.

More followed; chilling sounds they were, growing louder as it rippled through the group. Over the sound of the rain came the sickening clink of incisors.

In the disorientating instant weapons were drawn, hoods thrown back, and the woods rang with Elven cries. " _Spiders_ ," the guard hissed, his dark eyes upon the branches overhead. " _tira ten' rashwe!_ " _(look out!)_

Eroth screamed as _something_ fell from the trees. A huge, writhing mass of dark, thick _legs_ had landed before the guard's horse and, as it reared up, began to tangle itself onto his saddle. The ellon struggled, trying to extract his bow from under its heaving form.

Snapping from her terror, Eroth fumbled for her weapons, managing to unhook her bow. In a flash the arrow was nocked, the string drawn, and the creature tumbled to the ground. The elleth stared at the feathered shaft imbedded into its head; _her_ arrow. She let out a fast, trembling breath.

"Dree!" She felt a whisper of her name in the unbearable din. "Dree – _Eroth_!"

Eroth turned to meet the gaze of dark, horrified blue eyes. "Eroth," Legolas cried, " _fight._ "

She felt a sting at her ankle. Suddenly, in the heat of the moment, the elleth felt an unnamed _cold_ clarity spread through her body. With deadly precision, she had struck an arrow into the creature's beady eyes, unheeding of the murky blood which sprayed onto her leggings.

Heaving the twitching body from her horse, Eroth twisted. Another arrow pierced the underbelly of the spider above her. The elleth ducked as it collapsed from the branches, an out-flung limb grazing her arm. She hissed in disgust.

Looking up, her brief glimmer of hope vanished. The trees hummed with malice. From the end of the path, dark shapes were writhing among the branches. The elleth dragged her eyes from the depths of the shadows, reaching for her quiver. She saw black.

Blindly, she thrust the arrow outwards. The great spider shrunk back momentarily and bared its milky incisors. Eroth felt a brief bout of nausea as an indescribable odour wafted from its gaping mouth. She wondered briefly what its last meal had been, before a strong force pulled her from her horse.

And Eroth Dree knew no more.

* * *

The guard survey the trees before him, his trained eyes dwelling briefly on every shadow, every leaf which seemed to stir in the hooded dusk. His observation of the surroundings assured him that no malice still lurked on their path, yet Arandrin knew that there were things that could escape even Elven eyes, things which had learnt deceit before their first glimpse of daylight.

Cautiously, he loosened the tension in his bow and returned the arrow to its quiver, gesturing silently with his fingers. A hooded figure slipped from the trees behind him, saluting his superior with a hand to his heart.

"Permission to rest, Arandrin?"

Arandrin turned from the path before him. "Accepted. Braern will keep watch."

At this, another of the group approached soundlessly, performing the customary greeting. The figure removed its hood, revealing fair hair pulled into a brusque knot and feminine features. Her brow was creased in worry. "What of the King's son?"

"Our search has assured us that he is alive, as well as the elleth accompanying him," replied the guard, his tone flat, "we will search West of the Road tomorrow."

"And if our search turns up nothing but dead leaves? What then? The King will strip us of our livelihood." The enquiry was pronounced in fierce, hushed tones, the elleth's flashing eyes betraying her ire.

"The King will be just, Braern. It is our duty to protect those assigned under out watch, and there will be consequences to our failing." His brow clouded. "Speak no more of the matter, Braern. This I command you."

Braern cast her eyes away. " _Amin lava_." _(I yield)_

 _Author's Note:_

 _What are your thoughts on the fight scenes? Are they too brief? Should they be shorter? Or does the goddamn author ramble too much and you just want to get on with the story? All suggestions are welcome!_


	15. Dusk

**Chapter 16 – Dusk**

When she woke, she tasted peace. Pleasant lethargy clung to her limp body. A cool, sweet wind passed from her fingertips and up her neck to sooth over her forehead like a healer's hand. Something rang out – it was a lapwing's song, faraway, alone in its nest of dry twigs and soft grey down.

And then the peace shattered.

The elleth felt like a sea-yearning stream was winding through her head. Her temples throbbed and burned. The ground was rough, its layer of skeletal leaves fluttering to expose a dusting of sand. Instead of smooth wood and Elven craft, her blind touch was met with course grit. Slowly, tediously, her numb fingers sifted through the earth; curved around a stone.

The darkness unsettled her, but Eroth could not risk opening her eyes. Whether it was sunrise or twilight; she could no longer tell. The elleth ran her thumb over the stone; it was blunt. Sufficient. One would be surprised at damage that could be inflicted with a dull shingle.

Eroth's fingers tightened when the _presence_ stirred again. She had felt it, close beside her, from the moment she woke. Her heartbeat thrummed within her chest. The stream pulsed. By cautious half-inches, she lifted the rock from the ground.

Suddenly, a hand settled over hers, cool fingers skimming her knuckles. Eroth's eyes flew open and, with a sigh, she turned to rest her cheek upon the damp ground.

"Stupid Elf," she murmured, her breaths quick and fast, "I was terrified."

Legolas gently twisted the stone from her grip. "Always so wary, _mellon nin_."

"And rightly so. I mistook you for an arachnid, or some other spawn of the night."

"They are gone now. I have listened long."

Eroth struggled to sit upright. Her friend was crouched beside her, his clothing askew from the fighting, dishevelled pale hair shining softly from the faint light. The elleth gingerly probed a bruise at her neck, twisting her body to her surroundings. They were in a shallow cave, only a few paces long in depth, and opening to a narrow aperture through which the evening light was flowing.

"I am not of much use am I _,_ Thranduilion?" said she erewhile. "How they would laugh."

 _Eroth Dree, falling off her own horse._

Legolas retrieved her cloak from the ground, leaning closer to wrap the tattered material around her shoulders. "You did not fall. You were pulled from your mount."

"I assume it was not done after mere fancy."

His hands stilled. "You were being surrounded. I had no choice. A few bruises are preferable compared to the harm you would have suffered."

Legolas' gaze was downcast, fingers making steady work of the knot beneath her collar. Under his gentle touch, his quiet words; something snapped within her.

"I can fasten my own cloak," the elleth burst out, snatching the fabric from him. A few hasty steps brought her to the entrance of the cave and she leant heavily against the rock, scowling into the evening sky.

The forest was on the brink of dusk. She could discern, rising over the dark line of treetops, a watery, faraway moon. A flock of birds cut through the clouds and stained its face with rapid black shapes. Deep beneath the soil and in water-filled crevices, night was stirring.

"I was managing well until you came." Her voice sounded like a child's, thin and frightened. _But she wasn't frightened._ "I was under the belief that my skill was adequate."

She sagged against the stone. "I was a fool."

"'Twas not arrogance that failed you _mellon nin_." Legolas said. His tone was wary.

"What is it then? For a thousand years I studied, and waited, and sharpened my skill. And yet, when the time finally came, I fought like a nuisance."

"You fought like an _astalder_." His blue eyes were earnest under the shadow of his hood, golden lashes sweeping down over dark irises. " _Lle naa curucuar_ ; you only lacked experience." _(valiant one; you are skilled with the bow)_

Eroth did not answer. She was shaking; she should not be shaking. Anger and spite clamoured in her mind; she should not be angry. Fears chased each other over the plain of her heart in tumults like colours in hazy intoxication. Eroth clenched her trembling hands into fists, shutting out the faraway sky.

When she dared open her eyes again, Legolas was before her. He reached out, a hand hovering at the hem of her hood, before settling upon her shoulder.

" _Mellon nin_ , the day tires you. Come; we will find rest with the stars."

The elleth waited; his hand fell from her cloak. Eroth wanted nothing more than to pull her friend closer, to draw away that dark hood and see him properly in the fading light.

She stepped away curtly. "Indeed; we must seek our company."

"Dree," Legolas said quietly, "our bows are gone."

Her gaze caught his in a flash of trepidation. "We'll have to do without."

Legolas swung onto the rocky levee; a hooded silhouette in the cave's opening. "Your daggers?"

"Ready." There was a glint of silver in the darkness.

"As are mine." He smirked, biting down on the blade to free his hands. "Are you still acquainted with this skill?"

"Tolerably," Eroth said dryly, following him through the gap. She leapt lightly onto the ground. "I've had my moments."

Legolas removed the dagger from his lips. "Enough for some offending arachnids?"

A quirked eyebrow indicated her returning mirth. The unspoken words between them crackled and bent. "We'll have to see, _Thranduilion_."

* * *

Braern knew that she should not have undertaken the journey. She _would_ not had she known that there were so much royalty to take care of. Those young Sindarin Elves would cost her honour and salary if they refused to be found. With an Advisor trailing their movements, she would have to be ever the more cautious with performing her duties. She sighed, risking a glance back at the company where they were flattening the thorns in the wild undergrowth, a tedious task under the illumination of measly lanterns. There would be wary weeks ahead.

The elleth stiffened when the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. Braern's hand crept towards her long knife. She closed her eyes briefly, focusing on the origin of her unease as she drew out a single thread of sound from the din of the forest. Woven in the croak of crickets and caress of foliage was a curious murmur.

Braern slid down from the branch and crept, soft as the coming night, deeper into the forest. Every few paces she glanced back, half in common caution, half to ensure that the glint of their fire never vanished from sight. When the sound that she listened for waxed into hushed voices, Braern stopped.

For three beats of her heart, the guard remained still. The voices where none other than that of her own kin. This meant none other than a necessity for heightened caution on her part. Braern was not deceitful or rash, but neither was she noble beyond the confines of her duty. As long as she was not discovered, the elleth would learn what she could about the First Advisor's heated conversation with her leader.

* * *

They emerged from their temporary recluse. A cursed sight the place seemed; black patches stained the soft turf, and in their wake coiled the stiffening bodies of great spiders. They made for sinister shapes in the dusk, with long, cruel limbs twisted inwards, or extending uncannily towards the branches above, curling like some specimen of mutated crustacean.

The friends picked their cautious way through the carcasses, risking no discourse. Thus, no sound they made except for the occasional, sickening snap of Elven boots on an out-flung leg. Elusive tendrils of web clung to the undergrowth, which made for subtle snares, and they were careful not to tangle in them after several unfortunate stumbles.

They should not have stopped, but there had been a glint of polished wood somewhere in the tangled undergrowth, which Eroth bent down gingerly to retrieve. Smoothing a hand along the elegant ridges and curves of the Elven bow, the elleth tested its weight in the darkness, and passed it to her friend.

"Thranduilion," she whispered, "it is yours."

Legolas, upon passing his daggers to one hand, lifted the weapon to the dappled moonlight. " _Diola lle mellon nin_. I thought I had lost it." _(thank you my friend)_

All had been tranquil; under the illumination of the bright moon and shy stars, it looked as placid as a deserted clearing, its horrors smudged by the dainty glow.

Yet then, like slates skimming a still lake, there plunged from the trees a large, black, scuttling form, felling leaves and snapping branches in its impetuous charge.

Eroth stumbled back as Legolas tossed her the bow, instinctively reaching for her quiver. But the peril was already upon them.

Suddenly, a single dagger arced through the air. The creature twitched violently and crept closer, Legolas' white blade embedded in its gruesome eyes.

The elleth drew a sharp breath when her hand came back empty. She turned; heaved an arrow from the leg of a fallen spider.

In a flash, she saw that the hooded figure of her friend had lured the beast closer. Legolas twisted, graceful as a rushing river, and drove the dagger through its bared mouth. The ellon drew back his arm; it was soaked with a dark liquid. The fell creature lay on the grass, brief, spasmodic shudders passing through its body.

Eroth watched as Legolas kneeled and wiped his sleeve on the moss clinging to protruding tree roots. He did it with brusqueness; there was a warrior's grace in his actions. As if waking from a dream, she realised that at some point during the exchange she had nocked the arrow ready, its fierce metal point trembling upon the string. She returned the shaft abruptly to her quiver. The young elleth resisted the urge to fire it upon the lifeless creature out of petulant spite. She could not afford to blunt the arrow further.

 _Fool! Why had I not attacked?_

A mere sentiment had paralysed her before the release of the arrow. _It was a useless conundrum_. Eroth could not explain the shock of sensation which had gripped her in the heat of the moment; it was a sudden, unfounded, inexplicable _fear_ for her friend's safety, so intense that she recoiled from it with wonder.

Wearily, she braced a foot against the body of the spider, twisting the weapon sharply from its head. Swallowing the wave of nausea which thrummed with her rapid breaths, she leant heavily against a tree, and dangled the dagger before her.

Legolas accepted his blade with a smirk. There was no flush to his pale cheek, only a glint in his blue eyes which spoke of his recent activity. Only when he drew closer did Eroth realise that he too was breathing fast.

"That, Dree," he teased, "is how an arachnid is dealt with. Take note."

The elleth arched an eyebrow. The exchange was familiar. "It's not like you're an expert, Thranduilion."

"Speak for yourself, _Dree_ ," replied he, turning up his hood with slender fingers – they looked not so much an archer's now; more like her friend's hands; her friend's blue eyes which glanced softer and fonder now at her childhood reference.

Eroth turned away, picking her way towards the distant forest path, but Legolas did not miss the smile betrayed by her dimpled cheeks.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _If you've noted their last exchange; what is that about? I hope those words ring a bell from a certain previous chapter ;)_

 _It seems that our young elleth has begun to realise the perils of the coming journey. I would be lying if I said that she hadn't harboured a fair dose of childish conceit before the ambush, but now she has learnt to doubt her abilities…and her heart. She's a bit of a mess at the moment, at any rate; I apologise for that._

 _ **WickedGreene13** \- _ thank you for your feedback! I have tried to lengthen the fighting a little more for Legolas' encounter and, as you've pointed out, avoid complicating the format. Happy reading!

 ** _legolasgreenleaf15_** _(on Chap.15) -_ thank you again for your review! I'm glad you liked Haradar, who shares with me the love for tangerines. As for the mention of Legolas' height - I'd hoped that it'd be a nice touch ;) And - ah - about the holy cow of a betrothal. I'm sorry! Although Legolas and Eroth both know there would BE a betrothal; none of them know who that elleth is...just yet. The King keeps his secrets, unfortunately. Eroth is just feeling troubled about being replaced in Legolas' life. I shall make that clearer mellon.

 ** _legolasgreenleaf15_ **_(on Chap.16)_ \- this made me really happy! It's great to know that you appreciate my humble pensmanship :p I hope that I've answered your questions concerning their whereabouts and how they got into this mess! As for the fight scenes, have I fleshed it out a bit more in this one? Your feedback was valuable - thank you! I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and the ones to come.


	16. Lullaby

**Chapter 17 – Lullaby**

There was a fine moon that night. They had picked their tedious, shadowed path through thick shrubs and cruel nettles until the white glow of the splintered Pleiades bled into the deep sky. Straying as far as they dared from the path, they had found a meagre glade of soft dry heather which offered sufficient conditions for a fire and rest.

It was the height of summer, but the nights were always cold, bitterly cold, in Greenwood. Eroth recalled her little room back home; home which now seemed leagues away, with her warm pile of blankets to shut out the frost-bleak air. She thought of her wicker bed and her velvet-bound books, the purple drooping lavender at her bedside and the bitter, fragrant tea to be sipped outside the stalls in midsummer festivals.

Curled up by their flickering crude fire, Eroth thought of all those fond things far, far behind her; and she was glad to leave them.

The young elleth stretched out her fingers to the sparks of the fire. Here, beneath the white stars and whispering leaves, Eroth would have exchanged all the warm, fragrant tea in Greenwood for this meagre fire and soft heather. To that moment she belonged; the finest beverage of citrus and ground leaves could not compare to this first taste of _freedom_. Eroth was drawn to it, intoxicated.

" _Tula,_ " she spoke, " _hama neva i'naur_." _(come, sit near the fire)_

Legolas, who had been reclining against a protruding root, set down his bow. When he touched her extended hands, Eroth almost flinched in surprise. It was not his cool touch, gentle and brief as the flutter of a moth's wing, which set the beating of her heart to a stutter. _It could not be_. Yet her skin kindled where his fingers brushed. The exact colour of his eyes seemed exquisite under the firelight. The flames were fading; she added another bundle of dried twigs to the embers.

"Your hands are still cold," the damned Elf spoke. "Do you feel the chill?"

"It bothers me not; the days ahead more so."

"You fear our path." His brow furrowed.

"Nay, Thranduilion. I fear – it matters not what I fear." She fed more wood to the flames. The shadows of the trees streaked faint across her features. _For my duty I will give my all; may this journey not bear the burden of my faults._

Her friend looked at her for a long while, after that. Finally he leaned back, smiled wryly at Eroth's evident reticence, and turned to the grey trees beyond the glade.

Legolas had grown sullen; Eroth knew that she had somehow betrayed their trust. After centuries of imparting every secret, every piece of committed mischief to each other, she was learning to hide. They were no longer giddy elflings huddled under a rocky overhang, evading the footsteps of the guards, alone in their dreamer's realm where there was no duty to the King; no dragons to haunt a lonely lakeside town. Eroth cared for more than that now. _She was an elleth._ She would learn to be strong, to be a warrior; whatever the cost.

"In the morrow," Eroth murmured, stealing a glance at her friends upturned features where he reclined against the root of a tree, gauging his temperament. "We follow the forest road until our path crosses that of our kin."

If Legolas sulked, his tone masked all sentiment. "We either dwell, and wait for our company to find us – for I believe they would be searching – or we make haste, and hope to trail their footsteps. With luck, both could succeed."

"And without, both methods will fail," replied Eroth. "That much is apparent."

"Either way, it would be folly to stray from the path. No providence can protect us from those which lurk there. We shall rise at first light."

Legolas smiled suddenly. His sombre look was fading. He turned his head from the trees and smoothed his fingers absently over the bow. The ellon's braid shone silver where the starlight flitted, but when he shifted closer to the fire a gold tint succeeded them, and the fiery auburn glinted in his dark eyes. He was close; Eroth could make out the woven patterns at the collar of his tunic, where they twined at the pale hollow of his neck, the delicate threads elusive beneath his faded cloak.

"Dree, do you wish to sleep?" he asked.

"Not yet, while the stars shine so bright," the elleth replied. "'Tis a shame to miss their beauty. What say you, Thranduilion?"

His lips quirked upwards again, and Eroth could wager that the glint in his eyes had little to do with the flames. " _Mellon nin_ , we should sing."

It was an attractive offer. " _Namárië_?" Eroth enquired, brightening, "or _Elbereth Gilthoniel_?"

The Elves looked up, where Elbereth's light tangled into the broken treetops. "The latter," replied he.

The ellon tapped long fingers on the bow beside him, and began to sing.

 _A Elbereth Gilthoniel,_

 _Silivren penna miriel_

 _O menel aglar elenath,_

 _Na-chaered palan diriel_

His voice was low and solemn, the melody hushed lest his soft notes stirred the forest creatures. Eroth was transported to a halcyon evening on a rocking raft, drifting down the river before a storm sent them scrambling to the banks for cover.

 _O galadhremmin ennorath_

 _Nef aear, si aearon,_

The elleth shifted closer. It was a gentle tune, clear and pure as the stars it praised. Slowly, tentatively, Eroth laid her head on her friend's shoulder. When Legolas did not stir, she smiled against the soft fabric, her eyes fluttering shut.

It was not long before she was drifting down the river of that evening again, gliding past the hazy green banks of her dreams; as gently as a lullaby.

 _Fanuilos, le linnathon_

 _Nef aear, si aearon!_

The ellon watched and listened, bewildered; his friend was breathing softly and steadily, tangled coppery hair draped across her features. Legolas stayed still, loathe to disturb her, and cautiously wrapped the cloak tighter around her form. Her slumber was peaceful. Her slender fingers, calloused from wielding a bow, came up to grip the collar of his tunic. Eroth stirred softly in her sleep, her pale cheek dimpling.

Legolas thought of the morning they had climbed up a young elm to wonder at the delicate blue eggs of a robin; she had draped an arm around his shoulder for balance, leaning forward to inspect the obscure nest. _See that small one yonder, Thranduilion? It's going to crack soon._ She turned to him. _Too delicate; it won't last long._ He remembered being struck, in that frozen instant, by the radiance of her features. Until then Legolas had always had the vague notion that she was an _elleth_ , that his friend was somehow one of those distant creatures adorned in silken gowns and elaborate braids. Eroth Dree had an impish smirk, a perpetually dishevelled plait and a rough tunic. The ellon could not imagine her friend as part of _their_ kind. And yet Eroth was beautiful.

The realisation had felt foreign to him, that morn.

The ellon was staring. He looked away hastily.

There, in the hollow between the trees; _a flame_. It seemed a mere glow, like the illuminated parchment in rare festival puppet shows, but there was no mistaking an Elven camp-fire.

Yet Legolas had to be careful. Tales of deceitful spectres he known of since an elfling, spoken hushed into the eager ear through small cupped hands – but they were no children's tales.

He placed two hands on Eroth's shoulders and called her name. She started awake, her dark eyes wide, her body stiffening. Quickly, Legolas covered her lips with his palm. The elleth glared, all traces of slumber gone from her gaze; it was sharp as sword-grass. Regardless, she remained quiet.

Legolas gestured towards the glint of auburn in the trees, slipping his hand from her mouth. Eroth's fingers tightened around his collar, and only then did she glance down, her look turning sheepish as she loosened her hold, straightening.

 _"_ _Uuma ten' rashwe, ta tuluva a lle."_ Eroth's jaw seemed to be clenched. She spoke softly, her eyes intent upon the purple shadows. "Or so they say." _(Look not for trouble, for it will come to you)_

They moved closer to the fringe of trees. The flame was still there, flickering distinctly in the surrounding darkness, the blaze of light drowning in a sea of shadows. The elleth made as to step forward, but Legolas had shifted in front, blocking her path.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

Eroth looked at his arm, pressing into the bark before her, then back up at him. There was a determined set to her jaw when she laid her hand on his sleeve.

"Let me pass. We _need_ to know."

"Do you see the risk, Dree?" Legolas took a step forward, and her dark eyes followed his movements warily. "We would not be the first ones lost."

"Thranduilion," the elleth's fingers twisted into the thin fabric at his sleeve, tugging, commanding his attention.

"The risk is irrelevant. It is our only hope."

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _I have to admit, this was an obnoxious mammoth of a chapter to write. I've released some feels here, as well as a little pinch of fluff, which was pain to capture but hey… the result was worth every muffled scream. I am really curious to know what you feel about Eroth - is she an elleth, a rogue or a warrior? Please tell me what you think! And, as always, feel free to suggest where Deluge can be improved._

Here is the version of _Elbereth Gilthoniel_ in the Common Tongue:

 _O Elbereth Star-kindler_

 _White-glittering, slanting down, sparkling like jewels_

 _The glory of the starry host!_

 _Having gazed far away_

 _From the tree-woven Middle-earth,_

 _To thee, Ever-white, I will sing_

 _On this side of ocean, here on this side of the sea!_


	17. To Beware

**Chapter 18 – To Beware**

It was ere long that Braern returned to her post. She unstrung her bow and balanced the weight between her hands, rearranging her cloak so that the dew dampened cloth did not show to watching eyes.

It had been long since Braern last saw the First Advisor so angry.

Granted, Balthoron's anger seldom manifested itself in his countenance. Yet Braern had observed the tight, thin line of his mouth when he spoke, the sharpness of the shadows that were cast upon his features. Yet there was more than the blaze of ire in his eyes; his worry bled from him like wounds staining gauze. There was no concealment for a father's fear. Braern had been surprised to find the desperation in his tone when he passed his commands – the search in the woods around would continue until the Elves were found. They would not continue the journey otherwise. Arandrin had accepted this with a grave displeasure. Perhaps he too worried for the fate of the young miscreants. Perhaps her commander refrained from suggesting otherwise from fear of the Advisor's wrath, which had been as tangible as the bitter night air.

Suddenly, Braern's fingers flew to her bow. The elleth tilted her head, frowning. She slipped from her branch, her footfalls stealthy as she moved towards a tangle of thick undergrowth, a wry smile curling at her lips. _Speak of the devil._

The sound of a bowstring being strained provoked an immediate bout of rustling in the thicket. Braern's eyebrow twitched when its leaves trembled violently, and two dark forms tumbled out, landing in a rather ungainly heap before her.

She nocked the arrow swiftly. The figures were youthful and slender, and their cloaks woven of rich Elven material. There was no doubt as to their unfortunate identity, but Braern could not resist aiming her weapon directly at the source of the company's recent trouble.

"Who are you?" she commanded softly. "Speak, or I will shoot."

"Stay your hand." It was the taller of the youths, the King's son, "for we are kin."

Braern gazed upon them, her gaze steely. "I cannot risk the safety of the group for words of questionable intention. Your identity is unknown to me."

The slighter of the figures flung back her hood. She had fair features, Braern noted, and the storm-grey eyes of her father were apparent even in the darkness. Braern smirked when she made as to move forward, before being repulsed by the tip of her arrow. The young elleth stilled, tilting her head to the side. Her hands fluttered upwards, as if in instinctive defence, but she pressed them resolutely to her side, eyeing the cruel point of the metal with an impassive expression. The ellon behind her tensed at this, and Braern could sense his wariness like a hound scenting blood. _An interesting development._

"Your _piety_ to your duty is admirable _arwenamin_ ," the elleth spoke, her voice smooth and hushed. "If we do not warrant your trust, lead us to your commander."

There was a hidden edge to her words. Braern trusted no daughter of an advisor, especially not one with a keen gaze, and the tenor of mockery beneath her mellow tone. The guard's hold on the bow did not loosen, but she motioned languidly for the Elves to approach.

"Stay ahead of me at all times." Braern arched an eyebrow at the elleth's fiery glare. "And be silent, or I will shoot."

* * *

The elleth who captured them was conversing with another guard in low tones. The guard too was hooded, but there was anxiety in his gestures and alarm in the tilt of his head. Evidently, the elleth's companion disapproved of her actions, which came as no surprise. Eroth could still feel the cold breath of Elven metal against her chest. But where the chill had left her, the heat of anger burned. Eroth disliked this elleth and her subtle mockeries; and she knew that the feeling was duly reciprocated. But there would be time to nurse such sentiments. Eroth was anxious; she feared her father's wrath, and more so for his worry. And Haradar – it seemed not long ago that she was feeding him tangerines from her pocket-knife.

Legolas was looking at her. When she glanced back enquiringly, he inclined his head silently towards campfire at the edge of the trees. The rest of the company were huddled around it – elegant, slanting figures they were in their dark cloaks, half concealed by darkness. Where the long shadows kissed the shrouded trees, Eroth could make out two familiar horses tied to the branches.

She let out a soft breath. "I was worried."

Legolas glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "I know, _mellon nin_. I also happen to feel your ire very palpably in your countenance; what angers you so?"

"Are you indifferent to her derisions?"

"Well, Dree, after several long centuries of friendship with _you_ one would think that I would be accustomed to such treatment."

His teasing tone irked her almost as much as the glint of mirth in his eyes. Taking advantage of their proximity, the elleth elbowed him sharply in the ribs. His mirth faded. He caught her wrist before more attacks could follow, a dark eyebrow arched.

"That was a very accurate demonstration of my words."

"I am glad it was of use." Eroth was about to say more, but Legolas had slid his hand down, and caught her fingers between his own.

His cool touch sent fire along her skin. Her petulance seemed suddenly inconsequential. It left behind an ache within her chest, ancient and smiting. Eroth knew not what it meant; she felt bereft of _something_ she did not know she possessed. An inconvenient riddle and she was the enigma. She bit her lip and scowled.

The guards had halted in their conversation. They came not towards them, but disappeared from the glow of the camp-fire into the deep trees. They returned ere long, but emerging from behind them was the leader of the group – and her father.

The way Balthoron looked at her, one would have thought that Eroth was an elfling again.

She bristled under his gaze, until the keen worry there spurred her forwards. " _Atar_ , I am well."

She laid her hand upon his shoulder. Eroth felt like a child who had wronged and, as children were, felt anxious to absolve herself from trouble. "Are you angry with me?"

" _Tirith nin_ , you have irked me greatly." Balthoron smiled at her. Wariness still lingered under his brow. "But you are safe; that is all I need know. Safe, and greeting me like a comrade in battle."

Eroth returned his smile. The somewhat condescending implications of his words were not lost on her, but for once she chose to overlook.

"Well, am I forgiven _atar_?"

A cloud passed over Balthoron's features. "Hereafter you will prove yourself capable to this company and to me. I do not wish to regret my decision."

The daughter bowed her head. "I will."

Balthoron bent low and kissed her brow. "Then there is nothing to forgive."

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _Hey guys! Forgive me for not posting earlier in the day (British time ya see); I was kind of occupied with being curled up on the floor crying my eyes out. Yup, you guessed it, this author just had a LoTR marathon. All those times Sam brought Frodo from the brink of darkness by reminding him of the Shire and all things worth fighting for, and Concerning Hobbits starts playing, or Howard Shore's songs of Lothlorien and Imladris, my heart died a little more. Not to mention the pointy-eared Elven princeling. Damn him - "Never thought I'd die fighting side by side with an Elf"; "what about side by side with a friend?" Ladies and gentlemen: the moment my soul faded and joined all Tolkien fans in Middle-earth._

 _Rant being over, thank you for all the support there has been for this story! I would not have gotten so far without you. By now you would all be familiar with my way of writing and the characters in Deluge, which in itself is a happy thought._

 ** _legolasgreenleaf15：_** _Half warrior and half elleth? Makes more sense than 2016 to me! Thank you for that. I gave Braern a little more flesh in this chapter - I hope you liked it. About Legolas' revelation; we may fangirl together mellon. There is no remedy to the pain caused by fanfiction. To drop a hint: the chapter coming up is one of my favourites, so I'm super excited to post it!_

 _PS: MERRY - albeit a few nights too late and probably not welcome anymore - CHRISTMAS!_


	18. Omens in the Prairies

**Chapter 19 – Omens in the Prairies**

Many days passed under the drooping trees of Greenwood the Great. The company travelled fast; their horses were swift and their guides wise on the ways of the forest. The mist had cleared, leaving the sunlight bright and sultry and the night sky clear as the waters of the river Celduin, which sang out its lullabies beside the path, never straying from their side.

But the forest did not stretch forever.

The first time she came upon open land, Eroth almost wheeled around and flitted into the trees. Back into the cool green shade of the canopy; back to all she had known and remembered. But she stayed, maintaining a stiff grip on Haradar's reigns, crushing the leather between her fingers. The sight which sprawled towards the horizon; it was dizzying as Southern wine. Flat, wide plains stretched far beyond the waning forest, a young green under the midday sun –the _sun_ , ablaze upon the vast bright sky – and from the grass jutted clusters of white boulders, whereupon starry flowers bloomed from the smooth crevices.

The elleth grew up in the deep forest.

She knew the snares of tangled ivy, the beauty in gnarled bark, the tell-tale humming of hidden creeks. She knew the delicate black scrawls of twining branches upon a pale moon. She did not know the sight before her. It was magnificent. It was _fearsome_.

And so Eroth stayed. She could not remember lifting her hood, but the raw light had touched her braid and neck, sending a breath of warmth along her skin. The young elleth tilted her face upwards, to the sky and sun and all things in between; slowly, like melting frost, something shifted in her features. The look of childlike wonder, almost of fear, was fading. Eroth's lips tilted into a smirk. _Here was the thrill of freedom again, of power._

Decidedly like Southern wine.

A grey horse wheeled in front of her, cutting off her path. Its rider touched a hand to his temple in greeting before he bent low and murmured into the ear of his steed. His pale hair blazed, splayed out over a dark blue hood, and when he turned back to her his eyes were a piercing blue, glinting like frozen streams. Legolas slanted the reigns in his hands and the horse swerved onto the path.

"Your eyes are burning _mellon nin_ ," he called over his shoulder. "And 'tis not from the sunlight."

Eroth spurred Haradar on, and he leaned forward over Nimesin, and soon they were racing, rushing down the slopes, igniting fine clouds of soil which shimmered in the summer's heat. It seemed difficult then, remembering how to breath. The elleth found herself clutching the ties of her cloak as she wrapped the reigns tight around her fingers, laughing into the torrents of whistling wind, lost in the thrum of hooves upon the grass.

As they tied their horses to the drooping, dwarf-like trees at the bottom of the hill, flushed from the wind and breathing fast, Eroth Dree knew that she _was_ burning. But it was a different kind of fire.

She dared not look into her companion's eyes, lest he should see it there; this tumult of sensation which stirred in her chest and stomach and skin and consumed her like flames in tall grass. They scoured the broad white boulders and dangled their legs over the edge, watching the company approach, listening to the foreign still of the plains and the distant beat of horses' hooves against soft turf. Still, the sinking feeling dwelt heavy in her heart – not quite drowning – but slowly, gently falling, until there remained no longer the chance to gasp for breath. _This was not a storm._ The elleth closed her eyes. _This was the omen of one._ Kin to gathering clouds and the crackle of brittle air. A prelude to pain, and more.

But Eroth did not want to think about that.

Nor did the elleth intend to dream about it; nevertheless, she did.

* * *

 _It started with a bed, scattered with weaponry and clothing. The elleth was standing beside it. Light threaded in through the small window. There was something familiar about the sight; as if she had known this room long. But a change had come about this place. The yellow ivy which had in its occupant's youth reached in and twined around the sill was gone. She brushed her fingers along the wood. Dust._

 _Where was her friend? He would not shun a visitor. The elleth drifted towards the bed and leaned over the scattered contents. Eroth skimmed her fingers over the map spread over the pillow. There were clusters of scrawled lettering which marked the black spirals of roads: Langwell, Greylin, Ciril, all written in an elegant, slanting hand. The ink was still drying. She backed away, stumbling as her foot caught a bundle of Elven way-bread on the floor._

 _"_ _Careful, my lady." He was by the door, his hands behind his back, staring upon her with impassive blue eyes._

 _Why did he call her that? "When will the journey begin?"_

 _He walked over, shrugging on a heavy cloak, and brushed past the elleth to retrieve the map. He rolled it with care and bound the parchment with a thread. And then he was looking at her again with a gaze that made Eroth shiver and shrink back._

 _"I_ _f you will excuse me – we are leaving now."_

 _"_ _Legolas," she stepped forward, swallowing back her growing sorrow. She did not understand. To be travelling with her dearest friend was plenty a cause to be merry. It was why she was here – was it not? "So soon? I must fetch my belongings."_

 _He looked surprised. It suited him more than that chilling indifference, and for that Eroth was grateful. But then he frowned, his blue eyes turning suddenly cold, colder than the frost of a winter's night, and the elleth wished for anything – a shuttered mask, anger, pity – anything other than that expression upon his fair features._

 _"_ _I hope you do not intend to come with us?"_

 _And then she remembered._

 _Legolas took her limp hand and pressed his lips the burning skin. "I am sorry, my Lady. My wife and I would prefer not to have company."_

When Eroth opened her eyes, she could see the stars. The elleth struggled to sit up, the night sky spiralling above her, and pressed her fingers to her temples in an attempt to ease its throbbing. Her hands were shaking. It would not do. With a snarl, Eroth scrambled to stand up. She leaned back against the boulder which had sheltered her, digging her fingers into the cracks so that chalk-like dust crumbled from the face of the rock.

 _My lady._ She would make sure that he _never_ called her that. She was his friend; the title was cold upon his lips, painfully civil. _My lady, I am sorry._

Silently, she wandered through the maze of looming grey rock. The rest of the Elves were sleeping, wrapped up in their dark cloaks in the shadows, shielded from the uncanny sky. It was too vast; too bright. The stars were disorientating in all their silver glory. The grassland, blue-black in the darkness, rolled towards the land's end like a fog. Eroth drew her hood tighter around her. Far away from the comfort of the forest, she could not remember ever feeling so lost and so _small_.

A faint breeze was blowing. The elleth stretched out her fingers to the night air, aching for the rustle of leaves which followed not this ghostly wind. _Nay, not here._

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _I hope this chapter allowed for more insight into Eroth's inner world! It was certainly very refreshing to write after all the chaos in the previous parts. Again, thank you for the kind favourites, follows, reviews, and thank you for those who have stayed with Deluge so far._

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : Oh dear! I hope you get to revisit Middle-earth sometime. I felt more of a connection to Tolkien's world afterwards, you know? Moving on, thank you for this review! It was interesting to know your views on Braern, and I agree that a sense of duty is a common feature in the Wood-elves. _

_I've always been jealous of the writers who can twist the metaphorical dagger (i.e. have me crying over my phone screen at 3 in the morning), and I hope that someday I will be able to achieve this. I was very happy to know that you're feeling something though! All journeys begin with the first step, or so they say :p_


	19. Town of Ice and Stone

**Chapter 20 – Town of Ice and Stone**

The following morning the Elves departed the grassland. They rolled up their supplies, folded their light hoods in exchange for thicker cloaks, and reigned in the horses from where they had wandered into tall grass. No more were the merry folk who danced and sang under the glow of lanterns deep beneath the ground. No duty was omitted in this foreign land; they performed the preparations with silent assiduity.

By evening the company had reached the rushing river, aglow with the slanting amber sunlight. By twilight, the mists of the Long Lake shrouded the rocky banks. Their guides led them to the assigned location, where several boats were moored to water-hugging trees. The Elves boarded the fleet swiftly, leaving their steeds behind. The horses would find their way back to the plains.

The ellon was seated at the mast of the leading boat. A guide stood tall beside him, holding a lantern to illuminate an elusive path through the mist and water. Legolas watched the land recede into shadow and rippling water triumph over grass and soil. He was still with rapture at the pooling grey, at the way its little dips and swirls stirred the delicate mist. The boats glided softly; the caress of the currents could be heard murmuring all around them, and there sounded out the faraway screech of a flock of birds, returning to their nesting place before the dark. _Would the Elves follow their path?_

"Would it not have been wiser to wait until daylight to sail?" he asked the guide. The wings of birds bore them swifter than the falling night, but the Elven boats would not reach their journey's end until dawn.

"It would be too much of a risk, my Lord. Storms frequent this region in the summer months; we must cross it before the clouds gather." The guide smiled, lowering the lantern. "Worry not, I know this path well."

"You have travelled to Esgaroth often?"

"Since childhood, my Lord. My father came to these parts to trade in beverage."

"I will hold the light for you. What is the town like?"

The guide sighed lowly. His gaze did not leave the rushing water.

"It is a town of ice and stone. Beautiful indeed, but the stars forbid that it may be no longer."

* * *

Lake Town was cold.

Dawn was just passing, but no sunlight escaped the thickening clouds. Eroth leaned over the water, her fingers digging into the boat's edge. The wind whistled its desolate tune through every stone paved alley, screaming past street corners like the flight of a bird of prey. Its cruel wings brought air as chill as a winter's dusk – no summer dwelt here. The elleth doubted that it ever did.

Frail, charred leaves scuttled across the ground, their singed veins a shadow of that which had passed. And then – it started as a whisper, soft as that into a sweetheart's ear – a faint, husky sound passed from the cracks in the pebbled paving. It rose grey as ghosts. Ash.

"'Tis a sombre sight," Eroth whispered. She touched the water with her fingertips; it was pale as snow, and cold.

In no better condition were the buildings astride the river. At first they were homes, albeit quaint, rickety structures, which withstood the gale gravely. Sometimes, as they passed slowly, Eroth saw figures moving behind the narrow windows, and occasionally an idle torso leaned out to watch the boats, cotton-clad elbows propped up on wooden frames.

Then the homes looked like homes no longer. As they neared the heart of the town a dragon's fury became apparent. The houses were hollow. Their wooden bones were half visible through crumbling walls. Eroth looked away. Forgotten debris littered the streets, whereupon the ash swirled vapidly, gathering. A lone figure was sweeping it from their doorstep with a broom; a morning habit.

Eroth could feel her father's eyes on her. She straightened and tentatively withdrew her hands from the edge of the boat, folding her fingers over her lap. Her father would not see the way her nails dug desperately into her palm. Eroth could not disappoint him with loosing composure in the face of grief.

" _Daro_!" the Elves cried, and the boats drew up to the side. Eroth saw that the banks were smooth and paved with sand. They had reached a patch of flat land which fostered nothing but soil and dirt, and nearby the structures of men lay crumbled and rotting, beset with moss.

"The curse of age is already upon this place," Eroth murmured.

"We camp here tonight." Balthoron had left his position at the bow. His tall form seemed imposing even in the proxemities of the narrow boat, and the toss of the water, whilst rendering Eroth surreptitiously clinging to the side of the boat, seemed to have little effect upon his gait.

"And for the rest of our days here?" the elleth asked. The Elves were leaving the boats. She rose from her seat.

Her father laid a hand upon her shoulder. His grey gaze seemed sharper than ever under the cold dawn light. "It would be our most suitable choice of accommodation. You know the sailor's knot, I suppose?"

The boat was dragged upon the banks. Eroth followed the company down to the sloping land, her steps faltering briefly. The loss of the waves was disorientating. Surprised and ashamed, the elleth covered the stumble by bending down to the sand, and engaged herself with securing the boats to a wooden post. _The sailor's knot_. It brought up a memory of bending over intricate diagrams, uneasy under the hawk eyes of Master Cystenn, staring upon the spirals of thick red ink as if it would somehow mercifully imbed itself into her mind. The elleth was glad that all the effort would not be put to waste.

She had the length of rope between her teeth when an ellon took an interest to her predicament.

"Do you need assistance, Dree? Your strength is faltering."

So the Elf had a mind to mock her. It was almost as if, all those years ago, he had not been sneaking doodles of vines and birds onto her page for the duration of the lesson. Eroth tugged the rope from her lips and threaded it through the knot. "A little fatigue – " she pulled it taut, " – does nothing to my _strength_ … Thranduilion."

She straightened, brushing the sand from her tunic. "It does, however, shorten my temper considerably."

"You did not sleep well on the river?"

Eroth studied her friend. Legolas looked as weary as she, and the elleth felt a stab of regret for her sharp words. "Small wonder." she replied. "I am too old to be rocked to sleep; the waves irked me."

She hastened past but Legolas was faster to the path. He laid a hand upon her arm, almost as if to steady rather than restrain, and his gaze was earnest. Abruptly, she recalled an image from the night before, when her boat had passed his and the elleth had glimpsed him beneath a lantern, staring out at the black water as if seeking its secrets. His eyes, cast in half-shadow, had been intent then as they were now. She wondered what secrets she had to offer.

"Do not be ashamed to fear _mellon nin_."

"Fear?" Eroth murmured, tension creeping into her voice. "What do you know of my _fears_ , Thranduilion?"

Her friend stepped back with a furrowed brow. Was it the look of one frustrated by an unyielding mystery? Or did something else flicker behind his eyes, akin almost to hurt? "Only that which you are willing to tell me," said he softly. "I wish you had less to hide."

"You would not say so had you known, had you _seen_ –" Her breath left her lips, and Eroth lowered her eyes. "Forgive me Legolas. You are right; _amin anta_." _(I tire)_

The ellon's lips quirked into a faint smile. He touched her cheek, a gesture of well-wishing, but also of assurance. Legolas would not demand the truth if Eroth chose to bear its burden. "Rest then _mellon_. You will need it for the days ahead."

"I had not known the prospect of sleep to seem so sweet." She clasped his shoulder. "Alas, the tents must be raised, the supplies allotted. There is much to be done and it is yet morn. _Tenna' telwan san_." ( _Until later_ )

The elleth started towards higher ground, turning back briefly to tilt her head in parting. How could Legolas know that the truth withheld from him was also denied to herself? A wry smile curled at Eroth's lips, before she disappeared into the midst of the preparations.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _And so the company from Greenwood finally reaches Smaug's desolation. I have tried to describe Lake Town as I imagine it would have appeared, although if you notice inaccuracies please tell me and I'll give it a twiddle._

 _I have also lengthened the journey upon the Long Lake so that the times of day fit in with the tale. I read from some sources that Smaug's first arrival at Erebor did not cause as much destruction to Lake Town as his deliberate attack in The Hobbit, so only a minority of the structures are damaged._

 _Now, moving on from the realm of mortals. What do you think Eroth's fears are? And why does she hide them – from Legolas, especially? Perhaps she is beginning to realise something about herself that she does not wish to acknowledge ;)_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15:** I agree with your image of Eroth. If anything, she is not a lady. And even if some considered to be - advisor's daughter and all that - I think that she cherishes the notion that Legolas would never see her as such. Which is why, as you have noticed mellon, she was really not pleased with the dream. Don't worry, though, I'd say that it was less of a premonition, but sort of a manifestation of Eroth's deeper fears!_

 ** _WickedGreene13_** _: thank you for your kind comments! Reading the 'melleth nin' part made me really happy because it was something that I had always held to: Deluge is in a way about the transformation between 'mellon nin' and 'melleth nin', as well as the difference between 'arwenamin' and 'mellon nin'. Stick with this story, and someday we may see it happen! I think that it is another reason to why Eroth did not want Legolas to call her 'my lady'. It seemed too cold and courteous, and she holds their friendship very dear because she cannot have more – or so she thinks ;)_


	20. Home of Sand and Soil

**Chapter 21 – Home of Sand and Soil**

Hands were on his shoulders, ice cold, shaking him. Legolas threw an arm over his eyes, sighing as the last taste of slumber melted into the chill of the morning air. He sat up, smoothing fingers over his sleeping shirt.

Eroth was in the tent – _his_ tent – still clad in a white nightgown, her hair streaming past her bare shoulders in igneous waves. Her face was alight with wonder.

"The river," she said, "the _river_ , Thranduilion."

"The hour is still early," he murmured. The foregoing days came back to Legolas in snatches. The mist upon water; dawn in Lake Town, and ashes _._ But this was another dawn. Glad was his heart that they travelled no longer; the true journey now awaited. _Now, just what was his friend doing by his bed?_

"Ay _mellon nin_." Eroth smiled, "a young sun rises. Come with me."

It was not the first time the elleth had disturbed his sleep for a strange caprice. Legolas threaded fingers through his hair, eyes narrowed against the morning light. He turned to his friend, noting the nervous impatience upon her features, and the shadows beneath her grey eyes. She needed rest. But there was no use dissuading her now.

Eroth straightened from his mattress, commanded him to make haste, and shivered. As she turned around the ellon pulled on a tunic and leggings. He bid her to face him and draped a cloak around her slight form.

"This had better be a wondrous sight."

She shot him a smile over her shoulder, a glint kindling in her grey eyes. "You'll thank me Thranduilion."

He stopped Eroth at the opening of the tent and fastened the blue cloak properly around her collar, tucking the red curls beneath. "Such urgency is unwarranted."

Eroth quirked an eyebrow. "We shall see. Follow me."

With the elleth by his side, Legolas followed the slope of the land downwards where fine sand overtook the soil. A red dawn stained the sky as they reached the riverbank. His steps faltered at the sight of Lake Town's morn spread before him, and he gazed with wonder upon the river, its torrents straining towards the distance, a thrill of light under a fledgling sky. Pale blue ice, like the robin's egg, drifted upon the cold currents. They glowed crimson, and cerise, and a gentle roseate under the touch of the slanting sunlight.

"'Tis magnificent, is it not?" Eroth breathed, slipping from his side to trace her fingers through the rippling silver, gently and languorously. "They say that this is the heart of the town."

"A fair heart," Legolas murmured, "full of grace and light."

He walked across the damp sand, moving closer to the rushing water. The very air smelt purer after the rain. It had fallen day and night, obscuring both noon sun and northward stars, cleansing from the sand the foul stench of fish and waste.

"There is a different dawn for every land," Eroth said. "We must see them all."

Her brow clouded when she realised her mistake; she drew herself up, and smiled faintly. "I am sure the beauty cannot be touched by one's company."

Legolas threw himself onto the frozen soil by the river. In his companion's glance flickered something that the ellon could not place, so he traced the soft line of her jaw with outstretched fingers, lightly, as one might touch the feathers of a bird. He knew not why he did it; all he cared was that his friend was troubled, and had been for long, yet there was nothing he could do to remedy it.

Abruptly, Eroth laid a hand upon his arm. "Look Legolas. There, through the mist."

The reverence in her grey eyes spurred him to turn more keenly than her words. Legolas let his hand fall to shield his eyes against the crimson sun. In the distance, far further than the dark spired rooftops of Esgaroth, further even than the faint shores of the Long Lake, rose a mist-shrouded mountain.

" _Erebor_." Legolas strained his gaze towards the jagged peak, rising in wonder. "The great Dwarf kingdom of Rhovanion. It has stood since the Age of the Trees. Alas, all its glory fades to nought but hollow rock."

"The King under the Mountain dwells there no more, and Durin's folk are scattered." Eroth traced the edge of the water with her footsteps, coming to rest before a great boulder sunken low in the sand. "I used to fancy meeting with him – a great Dwarven king. I should have liked to see the wonders of their craft, the vast halls and the deep mines; I would have asked them how they could find joy in such a city of stone."

The elleth swung onto the boulder, her slender form balancing easily upon the narrow top. She looked down and laughed. "I still feel as if I am waking from a dream. _Tula sinome_ Thranduilion. 'Tis quite a different sight where I stand." _(come here)_

Indeed it was. Esgaroth upon the Long Lake was surrounded by once prosperous lands, much of which were ancient relics of very different times. Where the buildings of men no longer eclipsed their sight the lake itself stretched to all directions, a mass of rippling grey water which coiled round the town like a great serpent. The lands beyond, which were but a tantalising imprint in the horizon, choked with rock and dust under the morning light. A lonely peak loomed over the town, silent and regal. Legolas wondered how many tales lay buried in the eternal quiet, lost to the indifferent shadows beneath the ground.

Perhaps they were indeed waking from a dream. For all the centuries that Legolas had spent in Greenwood, the myriad of days long under tree and beside river, he had seen nothing of the world beyond the forest. Now there seem to be so many paths to take, paths which he had once traced upon a map, never anticipating that they would someday be as familiar to him as the trees of his own home. A strange thrill passed through his heart.

Somehow, watching the mist drift over the dawn's lake, Legolas knew that one day would come where he would venture far beyond the borders of his homeland. He would follow the yearning which had come to him in that very moment, even where shadows festered and no starlight remained to guide his steps.

Someday it would be time. _Someday all shall come to pass._ But even the wisest could not see all ends. He knew not his purpose and could not grasp his fate.

Eroth was silent beside him, looking down upon the wakening town. The slanting light kindled in her troubled gaze. She had first dragged him from his realm of dreams, bid him to have a tangerine and brought him on this journey. Legolas smiled. When a thousand years ago the elleth had him pinned to the ground, demanding to be taught the art of the bow, who would have thought that it would come to this?

Far away, the fog was lifting. Eroth raised her hand to trace a path through the air. She was drawing out an imaginary map.

"When Smaug came from the dreaded lands of the Withered Heath," she spoke at last, "the Dwarves of Erebor would have seen one foremost path for flight."

She glanced at Legolas askance, challenging him. Her hand dropped from the shifting white of the horizon. Her features were speckled in sunlight. Legolas thought of the books she kept under her bed and read by candlelight in humid midsummer nights. She always kept the flame by her hand, lest the First Advisor caught his daughter perusing the length of Dwarven history.

"They would travel South," Legolas mused, "to their ancestral home of Khazad-dum, the black chasm and dwelling beneath the Misty Mountains. But no creatures of light dwell in those shadows."

Eroth inclined her head faintly. "Ay _mellon_ , I fear to know what they will find there."

"If no peace yet lingers in the Mines of Moria; two choices await them – the first is the great Dwarven cities whence the River Redwater flows; the Iron Hills."

"Or, if they could so endure, the Blue Mountains to the far west of Eriador, wrought with the chaos of men and sea." Eroth looked at him, an enquiry in her dark eyes. "They are said to be proud and noble. Will the descendants of Thror settle there again, and prosper?"

"One cannot tell, Dree. Their fate hangs upon a thread."

"I hope they will," she said fiercely.

"Then may their pride not prevent them from offering their skill, and nor must it forsake them." Legolas turned and sild from the boulder: the riverbank was no longer deserted. "For Durin's folk will need it again."

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _I am interested to know where you would all like to take Eroth next. Fishing with the men of Esgaroth? More time with her father? Exploring the ruins of the town? I am definitely planning some of the above. The plot is unfolding, my friends. A storm rises._

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : thank you for your thoughts on the chapter. I was a little unsure on whether I handled their arrival in the right way, so I was immensely reassured when you seemed to appreciate it! Alright. *rubs hands together* About Eroth's complicated relationship with love - you are indeed onto something. I am not saying anything about the accuracy of your review xp but there is indeed more to Eroth's strange fear than meets the eye. Happy reading mellon nin!_

 _ **Aralinn** : I am glad that you are enjoying Deluge! It was delightful reading the thread of comments as you worked through the story. I had always pictured Eroth's eyes to be a dark grey, so you were right on both parts. Your observation about Balthoron's character really made me think - I have went through my past chapters and found that my character development is in need of improvement. So thank you for that Aralinn! Moving on, Braern does indeed have a role in the coming chapters, although it may be a while before we see her again. I will also be keeping your feedback on the fighting scenes in mind - and the next time it will not be spiders they fight ;)_


	21. River Foot

**_Chapter 22 – River-Foot_**

Thankfully, she had returned to the camp just in time for the first meal of the Elves. The scent of food reminded Eroth that she had not partaken in supper the night before in favour of an early rest, the deprival of which she felt somewhat keenly as she approached the tents. Yet, as her luck often had it, Balthoron had apparently sought his daughter in vain during the missed meal, and was determined to fulfil the purpose at breakfast.

Tucking the food resignedly into her cloak – _Legolas'_ blue cloak, as it seemed – Eroth started after her father through the gathering company. They stopped before Balthoron's tent and her father drew aside its covering.

"Eat your breakfast in here," said he as Eroth ducked through the entrance. "The First Advisor may be limited to the same way-bread of our travelling companions, but there is finer tea to be found at his table."

Balthoron was smiling; he seemed to be in good spirits. Loath to forsake his offer, Eroth drew out a piece of _Lembas_ which had been distributed at the camp, and began to fill her flask with hot tea from the pitcher. She looked up as her father cast a searching glance through the curtain of the tent.

"What do you see?" she asked, bringing the flask to her lips.

Balthoron returned to his seat. His smile had faded. He was looking at her with wariness in his eyes, which had always bode ill after the long adventures of her childhood.

"The Prince seems to have appeared at about the same time as you: _late._ "

Eroth tasted the tea, but the flavour was now lost to her. "I see."

His gaze was unrelenting. "What were you doing with Legolas Thranduilion when the sun has barely risen, _lellig_?"

A hasty draught of the strong brew scalded her. "We were merely by the river," replied Eroth quickly. "Watching the dawn. The mist was clearing."

The plight of the Dwarves had too been on their mind, but it was unlikely that her father would approve of such a topic. Somehow, however, Eroth sensed that Balthoron feared of worse from her time with Legolas than a discussion on Dwarves. _He did not trust her._

Balthoron must have noticed the shift in her expression, for he rose and clasped a hand upon her shoulder. "Forgive a father's worry. Finish your breakfast; there are many matters we must consider."

* * *

The sun was setting along the western horizon. The crags ahead proved a treacherous sight; their jagged peaks reached like daggers into the crimson orb. But the traveller could not dwell on such majesty. Never straying from Nimrodel, he had worn through the evening riding west where the singing waters to his left would merge into the river Glanduin, far on the other side of the Misty Mountains. Silently, he thanked the Valar for providing him and other wanderers with another path.

A small, nameless valley cut through the Mountains. Though smothered with thorns and thickets, no darkness lurked there save for its copious shadows and inky nights, and the path allowed for a single horse to pass through if providence was on one's side and no rain had fallen. Many times had the traveller been obliged to risk this obscure way.

As the ellon stood and brushed the road's dust from his cloak. Calling for his horse, he contemplated the journey ahead. He would make for Imladris first, perhaps to see one last time the wonders of the great valley, before swerving East to the fair lands of Greenwood. There his journey would end.

 _Sirdal_ , his dappled grey steed, had approached to graze its warm nose against his shoulders. The ellon ran a hand along its tangled mane and mounted smoothly. He intended to reach the other side of the Misty Mountains before nightfall.

"Be swift, _river-foot_ ," murmured Pelior Dree.

* * *

It was time in the little town upon the lake to light its candles and draw the shutters tight against the evening cold, for the tables were laid with supper, and all who had endured wearily the bitter wind could at last find rest and strength for another day.

Swift and silent were the feet which now walked the streets; her path wound through narrow alleys and under bridges, straying ever where the shadows gathered.

She followed another. A tall figure stopped before a singular door, murmuring to those who guarded it, and ere long Balthoron was admitted behind its great bolts. Eroth drew back against the wall. With a smile, she slipped her fingers into the coil of pipes beside the brick; pipes which spanned from the roof of the house to the gutters on the pebbled ground.

 _"_ _A meeting is secured between the Elves and the Master of Lake Town," Balthoron said, setting the pitcher of tea back upon the ground. "They are willing to listen. We will share with them our plans for the recovery of town and people."_

 _Eroth laid the flask aside, her meal forgotten. "When may it happen, atar?"_

 _"_ _Before dusk. The Master invites us to supper."_

 _"_ _That leaves enough time for preparation." Eroth stood, biting her lip in contemplation. "I must go and fetch the map from Legolas."_

 _"_ _Eroth," her father spoke gently. "Do not rise with such haste."_

 _The elleth stilled, her eyes narrowing. "You do not intend for me to come?"_

 _"_ _You still have much to learn."_

 _Eroth would learn little if she spent her days idling in the vicinities of a tent. But her father's gaze was unwavering._

 _"_ _I understand," she said softly, "I shall wait for further news."_

 _"_ _You will hear it."_

If Balthoron had seen the smirk unfurling in her features, perhaps he would have taken more precautions. But he did not; and by evening Eroth was climbing up the walls of the Master of Lake Town. Not, either, without a companion.

"Thranduilion," she whispered as she reached the top of the house, where the pipes were no longer convenient to aid in her ascent. She grasped the ledge of the roof above. "He has gone in."

Her friend's fair features appeared above her. Legolas leaned over the slanted roof, offering his hand.

His pale hair was braided back, perhaps having interfered with his climbing, and the darkness smeared shadows beneath his brow and at the hollow of his cheeks. He regarded her warmly, his eyes a brilliant hue unshaken by gloom. " _Vedui mellon nin_." _(Greetings my friend)_

 _Legolas' appearance was of no concern to her. She was no swooning elleth._ Eroth clasped his fingers and he pulled her over the ledge. Slates on the roof clinked. The friends froze in their actions. When they were assured that the streets below remained deserted and, once again, silent, Eroth drew back her legs from the edge of the roof, and the manoeuvre was complete.

"This is no kitchen larder," Legolas said softly. "We must be very cautious."

"Of course not." Eroth replied, dusting the dirt from her palms. "This time I am not assigned the role of the look-out. Now, head over there Thranduilion, and give a signal if someone approaches."

Sitting back on her heels, she gestured towards the circle of brick jutting from the roof; a chimney. It would provide excellent vantage over the street. However, Legolas remained stubbornly seated.

"What makes you think I am willing to go?"

"Because," Eroth whispered, " _my_ _father_ is attending the meeting. I have the unequivocal right to remain listening."

"If I was not mistaken, you received explicit instructions from _your father_ to avoid the meeting."

"And I did." She smirked. "Hiding on their roof does not mean I am a participant to their discussions. Now _my Prince_ , we are no longer in your father's realm, so go and stand guard."

"Peace, Dree." Contrary to her hopes, Legolas moved closer, a glint in his eyes. "If we bicker much further the contents of the meeting will be lost to us. Let us listen together."

The Elf had the audacity to lean over and press a fleeting kiss to her cheek. And just when Eroth had been so sure that it was finally fading, the sensations from the prairies broke like tides upon her skin and left an ache in her heart akin the hollows in cliff-side rock. It was curious that such small gestures provoked these inexplicable reactions. She would ponder over it later. When Legolas pulled away a slow smile graced his lips, for there was a flicker of light below them. Someone was lighting a candle in the room within.

Their previous dispute far from her mind, Eroth beckoned Legolas to the edge of the roof. The slates were loose there, teetering over the shadowed face of the house. They would be able to better hear the conversation there. She bent low and listened with her palms pressed to the cold stone. "Chairs drawn," she whispered. "They are merely saying greetings. Civilities always wile away the time."

"Anything else?" Legolas asked.

"Listen for yourself Thranduilion." Eroth grumbled, tilting her head to catch the murmured speech below. "Grievances are uttered…the Master seems respectful."

Gingerly, she leaned an elbow against the slate and rested her cheek upon her hand. "Ah – that was not so respectful."

Legolas met her gaze, troubled. He was relieved to find that there was a dancing light in her eyes. It seemed that conversation within was taking a fascinating turn. "Accusations are placed," Eroth explained. "Rather skilfully too. My father is defending our purpose. He offers the aid of the Elves."

"So the matter is introduced," Legolas murmured.

"Hush," Eroth hissed. "This is of importance."

Legolas watched the elleth's fingers clench and unclench upon the curved slates. Her eyes flickered towards him briefly, grey-black in the dim light. The elleth was wielding her uncanny ability to concentrate all efforts on a single task; provided that she favoured doing so. _He wondered if she still wove tales from the dust during the tedious botany lessons._ Yet Eroth was intent now, determined upon discerning the information that would hint at the contents of the days ahead. Legolas could understand that. When she tired of staying in the same position, he would take over the post as eavesdropper. _After all_ , the elleth had told him, _their cause was noble, and pride brought the fall of many._

The ellon drew his eyes away from the gathering dark. Eroth was sitting up, rubbing her elbow gingerly, though there was a look of triumph in her eyes. "It is agreed that Men and Elves possess a common purpose."

Her smile faded a little. "It is taking rather a long time for such a simple pact."

"Come here _mellon_ ," Legolas drew her back where the slope of the roof was less dangerous. "I will tell you the rest."

"Finally you come to my aid," Eroth said. "I was beginning to believe that the words of Greenwood's ellyth are true, and that your heart cannot be moved in any way."

"Dree," he said, amazed. "When did you begin to listen to idle blather?"

"You act as if you were unaware of your admirers."

Legolas shot her a look fully expressive of his perplexity. "Oh, Elbereth," Eroth muttered, looking down at her hands.

Legolas arched an eyebrow at her eccentric moods, before he leaned down to catch the gentle murmur of voices below. The meeting had progressed to a discussion over the allotment of aid efforts between the company and the men of Lake-town. He could picture the terse silence in the room, with its lambent candlelight and ancient tapestries, and in the high-backed chair Balthoron's grave gaze, his head tilted birdlike to the side.

"The Master here prefers the Elves to work on repairing the buildings," he said quietly. "He insists that there are not enough men willing to undertake such a project. Balthoron prefers that we manage the resources. Settle those who are without a home, and distribute food and necessities." A slight pause. "They are reiterating their points."

"They will reach a negotiation somehow," Eroth replied wearily. She was twisting her fingers into the fabric of her shirtsleeves.

"It is difficult to resolve when priorities vary."

Eroth smiled faintly, tipping her head up towards the darkening sky. There was a hazy moon, blistered and thin. Smoke from the chimneys unfurled into the night, dancing with the starry cinders, and her eyes followed its patterns with wonder. Legolas smiled and bent his head to continue the task. Even though botany's tedium was a distant memory, Eroth had not stopped weaving tales in her head.

Translations:

 _Lellig_ – my daughter


	22. Queer Hopes

**Chapter 23 – Queer Hopes**

The dusk sky was all the girl had for company.

The soil, warm still from a blistering summer's day, proved a harsh cradle as she lay down in the shadow of the birch. Exhausted as she was, she would not allow sleep to take her. Supporting her tired head against the rough bark of the tree, she stared out helplessly into the distant plains, daunted by the miles of land stretching between these meager birches and her beckoning home. It was about time for dinner.

The girl straightened. Where her gaze travelled the landscape was flat and barren, but as she strained her gaze further she could make out the swelling of hills in the very distance. Rumours told of a town of queer folk, half a grown man's size but kind and merry, who lived there in holes in the ground. She doubted their truth. Helge did not tell her much, and he was known to have an unreliable mouth. Either way, no land beyond the village concerned her; nor would it ever do.

She dropped the rest of the blackberries into her pack. Upon deliberation, she sifted purple-stained fingers through the bag until she pulled out a large handful of herbs, which she laid with renewed care over the flask and fruit within. The herbs must not be crushed; it would reduce their potency, and they were _important_.

So absorbed in thought was she that the clattering of hooves had escaped her notice. Satisfied with rearranging the contents of her pack, the girl looked up. Coming down the dusty path beside her was the form of a rider, leaning down over the mane of the horse to whisper something in its ear. In response, the grey steed seemed to quicken its pace, and if she did nothing –sudden fear seized her – if she did nothing, they would flash past in an instant.

Stumbling a few steps forward, she found herself lifting her arms, waving them in a reckless attempt to catch the eye of this unknown traveler. _A queer wish._

"Where are you headed?" She shouted as loud as she could over the din.

To her relief the cloud of dust settled slightly, and the rider slowed to a stop, reining the horse. It beat its great hooves against the dusty road. The girl step back a few paces. She clasped a hand over her arm warily and peered up at the horse and rider. A cloak of dark green was fastened at his shoulders, and a hood obscured his features.

"I am on the path to Rivendell, my lady."

* * *

"Well?" Eroth asked, tugging at her shirt collar absently. "How do I look?"

Uncomfortable under the furtive glances cast by the folk of the town at her travelling garb, she had donned the shirt and slacks of Esgaroth's convention. The clothes hung off her slight figure limply; evidently they had been tailored for someone larger in height and breadth. The shirtsleeves were so long that they covered her hands. Her fingers snagged in the buttonholes at its cuffs as she tried to tuck the hem within her trousers. She looked up, brushing the loose hair from her eyes.

"Will this work?" she asked again, her voice quiet. If anything, the elleth felt more uncomfortable in her new garb than she had before on the streets, clad in that conspicuous long Elven cloak.

 _Perhaps it was because Legolas was staring at her as if they had not met in a decade._ There was an unreadable expression in his blue eyes, almost one of wariness. The ellon was still lounging back against the tent, his shirtsleeves unbuttoned and rolled up at the elbows; Eroth conjectured that he had been practicing before she entered. His twin knives, pale and deadly, lay beside the mattress, and his gaze was sharp and focused. The elleth was sure that if she looked closely there would be a flush in his cheek, which sometimes tinted his skin after they parried together, their harsh breathing lost to the whispers of the forest. She missed those early days, missed how _simple_ life seemed then; a mere matter of defeat or victory. No bitter triumphs and unforeseen risks.

"You seldom have your hair unbound," Legolas observed. "And you still look very much Elven, if that was what you had sought to conceal."

"It will suffice."

Eroth trailed impatient fingers down the fabric of her sleeves. She knew not what words she had expected from him. _You still look very Elven._

 _Was that the best he could achieve?_

It was curious; she wanted him to _truly_ see her. As the childhood friend, aye, as a kindred spirit, a partner in crime - yet it was not enough. She knew not when, knew not how, but in the passing of seasons they had both grown. Eroth wondered at how long she had been ignorant of such change. The garments of elflinghood and the veil of friendship seemed now of a different make to the threads which bound them when they were but children.

"Rain is gathering, Dree." Legolas' eyes met hers. His gaze was earnest, open. Eroth knew that he had intended no slight; after all, he looked upon a friend only, whichever way her hair was worn. "Are you intent upon leaving now?"

"Ay _mellon_ ," she replied, stretching out her hand. "I will not delay my first task."

He rolled up the map and gave it to Eroth. "Remember to mark out the purpose of the buildings."

"I will not forget." She tucked the parchment under her arm.

"I hope that you have somehow procured a coat."

"Indeed I have. With luck it may help me appear less _Elven_."

It was the last jibe, one that stung herself more than it did him. A mockery for harbouring the false hope, in the instance his gaze rested upon her, that he finally noticed his friend was an _elleth_. Queer hopes; they mattered not.

* * *

The rain in the deep forest always came in torrents, without warning, its rushes and swells fickle as a child. In the winter it was bone-cold and blade-sharp, murmuring through bare branches, and in the summer there was always an aroma about it; something of bark and soil and the woodland lichen, and something of the clouds. There was beauty in the storms of Greenwood.

Here the rain drifted, hushed and stealthy. It blew like ashes and smelt like ashes, mingled with the faint, ever present stench of dead fish. There was no thunder, no staccato of raindrops pattering onto laden leaves, no sweet scent of moss. This grey, chafing mist gathered languidly and lingered long. This rain was desolate.

Eroth drew her knees upon to her chest, seated upon the stone steps of the town's clock tower. Despite the deafening tolls of the bell above during sparse intervals, she was happily sheltered from the rain and free from inquisitive eyes. It made for adequate conditions in observing the town.

The elleth spread a scroll of parchment over her lap. It was entitled ' _A Map of Lake-Town; detailing Esgaroth upon the Long Lake_ '.

The map was already cluttered with columns of annotations, all rendered in a sprawling, graceful hand, the blue ink drying delicately in the damp air. Eroth looked upon it with satisfaction, returning the quill to her coat pocket. Said garment seemed to possess as extensive an amount of hidden pockets as it did patches of cloth, seemingly sewn on to cover the moth bitten holes its age had attracted. The faint odour of fish hinted at the occupation of its original owner.

Eroth drew the coat tighter around her. She could overlook the smell as long as it provided warmth against the biting wind.

Footsteps were approaching, betrayed only by the splash of puddles onto the cobbled pavement. The elleth rose from the steps. It was the leader of the company, by the name of Arandrin. Back home he had been a stern statue, mounted high on his horse, guarding Greenwood's walkway with a quick blade and a withering gaze. Now he took the form of a shadowed figure, gliding over mortal stones, a silent hood braving the mists of rain. As an elfling Eroth was terrified of him.

Perhaps she still was.

" _Mae govannen_ ," he called over the swirling gusts. "I trust that the map you hold is used to good purpose?"

Eroth walked down to meet him at the foot of the clock tower. She folded the parchment and offered it to her leader. "Aye my lord. _Sana sina_ ; 'tis complete." (take this)

Arandrin accepted the map, tucking it wordlessly beneath his cloak. His eyes reminded the elleth of her father; of cold underground wells. "I trust that you have reviewed everything of note?"

"To the extent of my knowledge. That which have been destroyed are concentrated beside the river. Most are ordinary homes."

" _Tanya farnuva_. It shall be of use."

Arandrin inclined his head. It was a gesture of gratitude; evidently smiles did not often touch his countenance.

"I have been informed that you are learned in the art of cartography as part of your studies. Henceforth I want you to draw up another map according to the new geography of the town."

"Yet," Eroth said quietly. "It has not yet been altered for the better."

Arandrin looked almost as if he would smile. Instead he arched an eyebrow. "It will be."

Eroth raised a fist to her chest. "The new cannot be forged until the broken is healed."

" _Tenna' ento lye omenta_." Her leader returned the gesture, and turned up his hood against the falling rain.

Behind him the sun was breaking through the grey clouds, and cast upon the glistening cobbles a new golden sheen. This rain was desolate. _This light was hopeful._

* * *

 _Translations:_

 _Tanya faruva – that will suffice_

 _Tenna' ento lye omenta - until next we meet_

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Hey everyone! I suppose it should be more of a 'welcome back', considering how long it has been since said author had galloped off into the mists of reality and exams. Anyway, that is all behind us. I have a plan; the future chapters are going to be... interesting. If not tumultuous. Its a rather premature forecast, I admit, but there are a few chapters coming up (sooner or later) which I am decidedly excited to show you all. That is all I can say; my lips are sealed ;)_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : I 'm glad you enjoyed the past chapters! The chapters are experiencing a slight shift in tone now; so I am happy to count that experiment a success! About her bro, here is a little more development in his part of the land. I'm still keeping that thread nice and elusive, though :p And it's great that you liked that confusing half-kiss (I did too)! Thank you for the amazing reviews! And don't worry, I need to get my authorly act together as well._

 _ **Aralinn** : You have once again raised an interesting point - does her father know about her eavesdropping? Eroth certainly believes that they have kept it secret; but can they really fool the King's advisor (being a watchful father in the mix as well)? Hmm._

 _ **Carri007** : Thank you for your feedback! It did make me smile a bit (maybe a little more than that. Or a lot. Perhaps a happy dance transpired as well. Reviews tend to do that to me). As for heartache - there will, sadly, be a fair dose of that. But fear not - I have been broken by so many fanfics before this that I am too weary to inflict the same harm upon others. For the time being, strap yerself in for some fluff instead :) _


	23. Epping's Bakery

**Chapter 24 – Epping's Bakery**

 _The King beneath the mountains,_

 _The King of carven stone,_

 _The lord of silver fountains_

 _Shall come into his own._

By the riverbank and over a little bridge, dragon-fire had razed all to ashes and debris. The soft tune floated from the wooden body of a fishing boat, the words lingering upon the morning river, mingling with its mists.

 _His crown shall be upholden,_

 _His harp shall be restrung,_

 _His halls shall echo golden_

 _To songs of yore re-sung._

Eroth walked down to the water and the little boat drifted serenely past, its sole occupant being a man of middle age seated amidst the tangle of nets and blue mesh cages. His head was lowered – Eroth discerned with curiosity streaks of grey in the hair behind his ears – and the song fell from his lips, low and soulful. His immense coat smothered instead of warmed him, and he had delicate, pallid features. There was no pink tint to his cheeks that seemed common to the fishermen of the town, and yet the man was master of a boat clearly built for that purpose, his head sunken upon his chest and his oars abandoned by the side.

 _The woods shall wave on mountains_

 _And grass beneath the sun;_

 _His wealth shall flow in fountains_

 _And the rivers golden run._

 _The streams shall run in gladness,_

 _The lakes shall shine and burn,_

 _And sorrow fail and sadness_

 _At the Mountain-king's return._

"So be it," Eroth whispered. It was a prophesy that had glided down the river, a prophesy which unfurled to the morn of a desolate town. The man sung no idle tune; they were words of hope; blind hope, yet so was all who struggled in darkness. The fishing boat disappeared around a curve in the street, and the last notes of the song fell into silence. The icy river and its little arched bridge became deserted once more. Eroth crossed the bridge, her steps faltering.

 _And sorrow fail and sadness at the Mountain-king's return._ Eroth had suspected that Dwarven obstinacy and love for their homeland would call them back to the dragon's hoard, even if centuries had passed between, like the salmon in the autumn who made their doomed journeys upstream. The children of Thror would not forget Erebor's image in their hearts. Its springtides and festivals, long halls and great fires, and the distant hum of the mines, always clattering out, always searching for gold in the deep; all this would haunt those who still remembered, and still dwelt in memory.

Eroth suspected that memories would weigh heavy upon the heart of the Mountain-king. More than ambition, more than pride or resentment, the potency of home-longing festered in the minds of the wandering folk. _Not all those who wander are lost_. Perhaps the Dwarves would find peace by the seas of the Blue Mountains.

And yet – Eroth wondered whether the King under the Mountain still dreamed of the Arkenstone.

Starting out of her thoughts, Eroth moved from the bridge and began to pick her way through the ruins on the other side of the river. _She was in no place to make assumptions._

The books by her bed could detail the length and breadth of Dwarven history and make as if Durin's folk were as predictable as the rising of tides. But no words upon a page could truly acquaint her with the nature of Erebor's previous inhabitants; Eroth could not claim to _know_ Dwarves until she had _seen_ one.

After all, she doubted any Dwarf would ever imagine an elleth wandering through the ruins of a mortal town. Eroth suspected that their impression of Wood-elves consisted solely of opulent ballrooms and an abundance of trees; not to mention a preference for good, strong wine. _Which, somehow, was not completely inaccurate._ Eroth smiled wryly, walking onwards through the dusty debris as she drifted away from the riverbank.

She had reached the end of the path.

Beside a little pile of grey stone, which would perhaps have served as a wall once, lay a tender sight. A long board, tinted pink and emerald at its corners, leant upon the forgotten wall. Upon it was inscribed 'Ye Olde Sweet Sh-' in broken ornate lettering, yet the paint was a rustic black, and the marks somewhat clumsy in execution, which made the observer believe that they had been painted by the owner himself. Eroth wondered if he lived to paint another.

She turned from the wall as footsteps crunched nearer, a heaviness upon her heart. A man – or a boy – was crossing the bridge, and stopped short as he caught sight of another lingering among the ruins. He was clad in a stiff brown coat, the pockets of which he now sunk his hands into, and tilted his head to look at her with puzzled dark eyes. Eroth let him conduct his scrutiny, aware suddenly and too late that her new manner of clothing did nothing to conceal her pointed ears.

Slowly, the youth crossed the river and approached her. He had either discerned sufficient answers to Eroth's singular appearance and obscure purpose, or simply dismissed the matter from his mind, for the wariness fell from his features. _If anything, he seemed more fascinated than suspicious._ The youth stepped closer, his gaze falling upon the sweet shop sign at her feet.

"It's a pity," he said quietly.

"Was it cherished?" Now that he was closer, Eroth observed that the stranger seemed barely past adolescence. She could not tell his age; not in mortal terms.

"Cherished? Indeed." He shot her another look, one of frank curiousity, but Eroth was quick to catch the sorrow in his eyes. "Children would hoard their last pennies for old Tomson's blueberry bourbons."

There was fondness in his tone, yet no smile bled from his lips. _Hope was always mingled with grief._ Eroth could not recall when she had first heard the phrase; there was a shadow upon her mind, the lingering fragment of a splintered childhood.

A child's scream dragged her back to the place upon the ruins.

Eroth looked up sharply in alarm. She saw with further surprise that the youth beside her had paled and, turning abruptly, started to run down towards the streets.

"Nym!" he was crying out, "where are you?"

He was met with silence. In agitation, the boy hesitated in front the bridge, casting a wild glance across the river. Eroth stalled, before starting into motion as she rushed after the stranger. _Whoever had warned her against meddling in mortal affairs clearly did not consider the scope of situations._

Her light steps soon crossed his path upon the bridge, whereupon the child's cry sounded out again, it's plaintive note cut short by a choking sound, and the bubble and swirl of rushing water. The boy called out again.

 _Courtesy be damned._ "Step aside!" she commanded, as she stole back a few steps.

Fortunately, the youth backed away. Eroth took the opportunity to swing onto the sides of the bridge, dropping into the shallow end of the water below.

The transition was all but graceful. Eroth was not prepared for the shock of the cold which followed. The river was fierce; the sandy bed sank and shifted traitorously under her feet. She nearly stumbled. _An elleth, to lose her footing_! It was unheard of. Steadying herself, she saw a small hand struggling above the river's surface. Eroth hastened closer.

A girl's neck and head had emerged, her mouth open, her brown eyes wide with fear.

Bracing herself against the chill, Eroth ducked her head under and swam towards the drowning child. The world became dark, and in the silence rose the hiss of strong currents. Her fingers caught upon a flailing arm, slipped, then found their grip again. Her heart thudded in her ears. Catching her by her elbows, she hauled the girl to the surface of the water.

By the banks a crowd was gathering.

Eyes watched, anxious, as the elleth held the girl in her arms, murmuring strange words in a soothing tongue. Heads turned to the dark-eyed youth as he pushed through the people, rushing down to the river. Supporting hands helped Eroth climb up the banks onto cobbled stone, as she laid the girl gently upon the ground.

"Nym," the boy said again, his voice hushed. He knelt down beside his sister – for their features bore resemblance – and supported her shoulders as Nym struggled to sit up. Eroth stepped back and realised with a tugging at her heart that the girl was so small, so slight that she could not have seen many winters. It had been decades since there had been children so young in Greenwood.

The girl stared up at her brother, her eyes filling with tears, but when she tried to speak a bout of coughing choked back her words.

"Hush." The boy brushed back strands of tangled wet hair from her forehead. "Let's get you home. You're in need of blankets and a warm drink. What d'you say to that, Nym?"

He stood, his gaze falling upon Eroth. The elleth was picking up her discarded coat; she straightened and offered a faint smile. Her moment of impulse had left an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach – _were her actions out of place?_ – as well as an unpleasant taste in her mouth. The water here was fouler than the rivers of Greenwood.

 _Nym was safe_ , she noted with satisfaction. The girl was holding on tight to her brother's hand, evidently still dazed, and soaking from head to foot. _She must be cold. They would do well to take her home._ But the boy was leaning down, warming her hands between his, murmuring words of comfort.

Eroth slid her arms through her coat, suddenly aware that she was in no better state; her hair was dripping water down her back, and the icy river clung to her clothing, sickly and chillingly damp. Her exhilaration was fading. The stares of the onlookers bore into her, relentless.

She had stayed too long. The cold morning light illuminated the little street by the river, slanting over the empty craters piled against grey stone walls, folding upon the creases in clothing and restless hands. Despite reminding herself that the crowd gathered out of concern, not wanton curiousity, Eroth's skin crawled under their scrutiny.

The elleth turned up the lapels of her coat, hiding her pointed ears. _Who would have guessed her first significant encounter with Esgaroth's people would pass like this?_

And who could have thought one that who had battled the Great Spiders of the North was found afraid of a street of stone, weary not from sleepless travelling and disturbed nights but from a few harmless glances? But she had to stay. She would see the girl safe, and bundled back home to a warm hearth and a mother's touch.

A murmur passed through the crowd. The kindly faces were turning away to their fellow neighbours. _Is the lass alright now?_ Someone leaned forward, clasping the boy on the shoulder. _It's the Epping family, isn't it? That's poor little Nym Epping over there._ Then came some shuffling. _Her brother ought to be more careful, these are ill times, I'd say. Ill times, dear._ The speaker's partner smiled up at him, slipping her hand through his arm. _Of course, my dear. Rotten luck._

" _Good_ _lord_ ," the youth exclaimed, turning towards the smiling woman. "I'm not letting my sister out of my sight again. Spectacle's over. I thank you all for your…attentions."

Eroth backed away as the crowd began to disperse, longing for a change of clothing and some moments of solitude back at her tent. The morning had been jarring, her mind restless as the shifting light.

To her surprise the youth stepped forward, offering his hand.

"We owe you greatly, my lady. Come with us; you look terribly in need of a sit by the fire. You're shivering."

* * *

"My name is Ehlark," the youth said conversationally. He gripped the girl's fingers tightly, as if afraid that she would somehow stray from him again. With his free hand he was combing absently through his sister's brown locks, smoothing over the snarls.

Pelior used to do something similar in the early days of their childhood – when he had not become quite so absent and his thoughts did not wander ever towards some distant land.

"Ehlark," the elleth smiled. "You may call me Eroth."

"Pleasant meeting you," replied he, a wry smile upon his lips. "I did not know that Elves had dimples."

Eroth raised an eyebrow. He was not the first to make such an observation – Legolas had stopped her one day, a mere elfling then, and gingerly touched the 'hole in her cheek' – but to hear those words in such a situation? It was bizarre.

"We have many other traits besides."

"A mere observation, my lady. I had always wondered what Elves looked like."

"Call me Eroth, Ehlark." She was becoming rather fond of his open smile. They had stopped outside a quaint wooden building, and the elleth watched him ascend the steps leading to a small green door, tugging Nym by the hand. The girl craned her head around to look at her, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.

"Well, Eroth," Ehlark said. "Welcome to Epping's Bakery. My home is on the second floor; the storefront is my mother's reign. I shall introduce you to her."

"Shan't we be interrupting your family during working hours? It is nearly noon."

Eroth should be declining his offer, retreating back to her camp, and doing her best to avoid her father should any news of the affair reach his ears. Perhaps she could take refuge with Legolas. They would share a merry laugh over the events of the morning. She wondered what he would think of Ehlark, or of Old Tomson's blueberry bourbons.

"Humbug. She will be pleased to meet you." Ehlark said. "And Nym wants you to stay."

A pleading look and a small smile from the girl succeeded uncannily in melting the elleth's resolve. _Really, it was rather frightening._ With a sigh she allowed Ehlark to unlatch the door, and stepped inside after them.

The pleasant aroma of baking goods almost remedied the lingering taste of the river. They had entered through a side door to the store, but the scents of a bakery must have permeated every corner of the household, sweetening the very air. She knew this through Feredir being a peculiarity in an ancestry of cooks – as a result, her friend's home smelled eccentrically of baked goods and healer's herbs.

They walked through the narrow hallway, floorboards creaking in their wake, and came across two more doors on the opposite end. There came the hum of voices and the din of footsteps through the walls. As Ehlark searched within his pockets, Eroth tried to picture Epping's Bakery during the noon rush; hungry town's folk seeking a brief respite, and the sweet scent of baking bread. Sudden sunlight flooded the corridor.

Her musings, and Ehlark's hunt for his keys, had been cut short by a sharp creak, and the subsequent opening of the door.

* * *

 ** _(Un)important Announcement:_**

 _I have changed my username to my newly established Elven title: Laegwen. Otherwise, I've got nothing to say but for that which I cannot say enough: thank you all! Your support and feedback never fail to make me happy._


	24. Fabled

**Chapter 25 – Fabled**

Ehlark's mother was a quick woman; hasty of hand and keen of eye, a direct manifestation of being tasked with not only resolving the imbalances in the family's meagre income but also the petty disputes and, when those were calmed, the mischief of the siblings.

She was among the hardy folk who could knead dough and keep her children out of the cake mix at the same time, then somehow retract the cheese-rolls from the oven perfectly baked and golden brown. When she married a lowly fisherman she forbade all to call her by the maiden name of Gwendoline, on account that it reminded her uncomfortably of silken dresses and curtsying to lords, and from then on she was known as Gwen, wife to Hendrick the lobster-catcher, and owner to the second best bakery in Lake Town.

Gracefully, she took Eroth's sudden presence in her stride, crowded the children beside the fire, and demanded that an explanation be made to their soaking hair.

Eroth was enraptured by the various ornaments atop the small fireplace. A dangling plant cast its vines gently down over a lively fire, and beside it stood a group of dolls, painted with generous, blazing colours. They were round and plump in shape, one smaller than the next. The carpet covering the dark floorboards was frayed, dusty, a faded red, like the coaches they had invited her to sit upon, soft and musky. Like childhood memories.

Truly, a mortal parlour was full of curiosities.

The noon sunlight stole in through dusky curtains. They were seated around the fire with mugs of strong black tea, save for Eroth, who received her brew with a generous dash of milk and two sugar cubes, courtesy to her being a guest and a delicate elleth in the mix. She had not the heart to inform the woman that she was averse to sweetening her cup, and sipped politely as Ehlark related his tale.

The contents of the conversation drifted hazily across her mind. Gwen was rubbing her temples. _What was Nym doing by the river? You know very well she is too young to play there._ Eroth watched the flames leap and dance in the confines of the fireplace, a simmer of warmth and crackling energy. Her lids were drooping. _I am sorry, mother. She wanted to hunt for crabs in the shallows, I did not expect for her to venture so deep. It was foolish of me to leave her._

The gentle heat of the room, the lazy sunlight, the couch cradling her back all proved a relief after nights upon the frozen ground, or tossing upon a thin mattress, staring up at the dull materials of a tent. In a hapless attempt in elegance, she took another drink from the warm liquid, suppressing a grimace.

Eroth was sure that _elegance_ did not involve plunging into icy rivers in the early hours of the morning; or contemplating the possibility of pouring her tea into the fire when no one was looking. Nay – that would be ungrateful.

Ehlark's mother was rising from her seat, crossing the table between them. "I offer my thanks, my lady, on behalf of my family. Nym is precious to us, our only little girl."

She stopped, and enveloped Eroth's fingers in a warm, coarse handshake. The action was open, earnest, as was the manner of the whole family. Eroth was growing to savour this frankness of heart, which seemed so different, so novel an attitude to the one her father had taught her. _Deceit is another form of tact. Be honest only when you are certain, for needless exposure ends in peril._ Sage advice; yet it had left a bitter taste. _There is no shame in candour,_ she thought.

"There is nothing to thank," Eroth replied, returning the gesture with tentative warmth. "I did only what was necessary."

"We all owe you greatly, no doubt." Gwen was smiling, her blue eyes unguarded, faint wrinkles flying out like sunrays, crinkling her temples. "You must come to supper someday."

"There is no need," Eroth stumbled out. "I would not want to inconvenience you – you have already been hospitable beyond necessity."

"Nonsense. It's not every day the fabled woodland folk graces our abode."

 _Fabled woodland folk_? But Eroth was no figment of legends.

"Of course you're welcome," Ehlark spoke. He was nursing his cup by the fire with Nym perched upon the arm of the coach, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the flames. "Isn't she, Nym?"

Eroth repressed a scowl at the boy, who had an uncanny grasp of her weakness. Little Nym cracked a tentative smile, her brown eyes beseeching.

"Turn up any time, my lady," said Gwen brightly. "The table is laid at seven. Ring the bell by the green door and we shall know it is you."

They ushered her to the door, Gwen with her flour-dusted apron and a gaze like sunrays, Ehlark slipping his hands from his pockets to touch her shoulder in farewell, and Nym with her rosy cheeks and damp hair, spilling down her shoulders in Epping-brown locks.

* * *

The pale cramped streets seemed a world away from hush and the warmth of the little parlour whence Eroth had departed. Hungry sunlight, white and cold, baked the river and cast a chalk-like hue upon the timbered houses.

Eroth decided that she was in no haste to return to the tents. She ran her fingers over the sides of the buildings, feeling the crumble of stone at her touch, warm and brittle. So different to cool smooth bark. Perhaps she revelled in the clatter of wagon-wheels and the hum of a market-place, or perhaps the prospect of a father's admonishment loomed yet upon her mind; the elleth wished that time's hasty footsteps would still - if but for a moment.

When sun began to bleach her vision, Eroth brought up her hand to shield her eyes, looking down. By the grassy wayside she plucked a few yellow daisies, a precious note of summer. Her fingers worked deftly at the flowers, familiar with the childhood sport.

Esgaroth being a small town, marked too by a guiding river, Eroth soon found her way back to the settlement. The banners of the Wood-elves were raised high above the tents, a sea of sun-baked green. She passed straight to the centre of the camp, brushed aside the curtain, and stepped inside.

Legolas was seated upon the rolled mattress. A mess of parchments was sprawled across his lap, and he supported his chin with an elbow. Pale hair fell across his eyes and his mouth was set in contemplation. The ellon looked up and lifted an eyebrow. Clearly he was not expecting her arrival.

 _Well, he would have to suffer it_.

"Thranduilion –" Eroth let the curtain fall, ducking her head to avoid the loose cloth of the tent. "I hope you will not resent company?"

His lips curved upwards. "Never, Dree. _Hama sinome_." (take a seat)

Eroth cast a sweeping glance around his tent. It had changed little since the first day they had arrived. Legolas was in habit of organising all into careful order, and the small low table, kettle and flask were cleared to the side, leaving ample space for the mattress upon which he was seated. She noted his bow and quiver in the corner of the tent, elegant and familiar, a reminder of the woodland stories they had left behind.

Eroth twirled the chain of daisies between her fingers – an emblem of childhood. She tilted her head.

"Close your eyes," she said.

Legolas' eyes flitted to hers, long lashes sweeping over dark blue irises. The heady noon sunlight, dulled by the material of the tent, cast a strange glow upon his features, and for a moment Eroth forgot about the shadow of the roguish elfling she had grown up with, and saw only the ellon before her. He had indeed changed.

"Whatever for?" Legolas asked.

Eroth bent down before him, an eyebrow quirked. "You will know."

The long lashes fluttered close, and Eroth held her breath. With his eyes shut, features still and tranquil, Legolas was angelic. Biting her lip, the elleth knelt down and touched his brow. His lids trembled. "Don't move," she warned, fighting to keep her voice even.

Leaning closer, she placed the daisy chain upon his head. The flowers drooped drolly over his brow. Eroth could not help but smile.

Sitting back in satisfaction, she watched as Legolas touched the flowers. He was looking upon her once more with a perplexed gaze. "It is a flower chain."

"Ay," Eroth replied. "And you suit it well _mellon nin_."

She wanted to savour the sight of a bewildered Prince of Greenwood, daisies falling over his eyes and tangling into dishevelled pale braids, with his soft shirt rumpled and parchment scattered across his lap. _He would never be one to call her a lady._ The thought came to her with a taste of triumph, effacing the sour flavour of fear in her throat.

"This is rather unbecoming a headwear."

Eroth's lips twitched, but she reached over and straightened the circlet of flowers with an air of solemnity. Her fingers brushed his silken hair, and she tucked the stem of a daisy into his braids, securing it.

"Unbecoming? It is a crown suit for a faerie king. Keep still."

Legolas stopped, leaning his chin upon his hands. "I am no faerie."

"Well, your hair would strike any of the woodland folk with envy."

Nimbly, she snatched his wrist away when he reached up to displace the flowers. Flipping his arm over, the elleth slid her fingers to his palm, and pressed it to the table. A strategy for acquiring opponent's weapons; she was rather pleased with the manoeuvre.

By the scowl sent her way, it was evident that Legolas did not appreciate her skill.

However, the dark expression upon his face served not its purpose; Eroth deemed it rather ambitious a goal, considering the yellow petals ornamenting his furrowed brow. She placed a quill into his open palm and indicated towards the spread of parchment.

"Do clarify these plans with me. I fear I have been omitting my duties."

"Were you otherwise occupied with weaving crowns for faerie kings?"

"For good cause." Eroth smirked. "The yellow looks delightful with your hair."

"You are particularly insufferable today."

But his impish friend was occupying herself with pouring out a flask of tea. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling through the scented steam.

"Shall we begin?"


	25. Witch Friend

**Chapter 26 – Witch-friend**

"I am on the path to Rivendell, my lady."

A cloak of dark green was fastened at the rider's shoulders, and a hood fell over his features.

"Rivendell?" repeated the girl. The word slipped from her lips like silk. Too graceful to befit the lands around. "Where is Rivendell?"

Dusk was falling on the lonely road upon the heath. The dust choked path seemed to swallow the two figures at the wayside with its long shadows, deep as a forest shade. They made for queer company; Elf and girl. One bending low over his grey steed, and the other looking up at the hooded face above; perhaps in wonder, perhaps in fear.

"My lady, there are truly few who have not heard of the great Elven dwelling of Imladris."

"An – an _Elven_ dwelling?"

The girl's mother had warned her of Elves. _Friends of witches_ , she had called them, _acquainted with sorcery themselves and possessing a dark magic_. She stepped back a few paces.

The green-hooded figure, who seemed in the instant less strange and more frightening, dismounted his horse. Standing before her, tall and slender, he seemed somewhat less intimidating, and there was something gentle in his movements, graceful as a soothing stream over grey rocks. Summoning her courage, the girl ventured to speak.

"Are _you_ an Elf?"

Her heat beat against her chest when the figure lifted his hood. She stared, hugging her elbows. A face appeared before her – not the face of a witch-friend, a sorcerer – but a _fair_ face, open and young. Yet her eyes widened as she took his pointed ears, beneath long dark hair the colour of rust. _An Elf_. Not a dark creature, a witch-friend, but an Elf all the same.

The wariness must have shown upon her features for the stranger smiled. There was warmth in his eyes.

"My lady, you do not trust my kind."

"I – " the girl hesitated. "I _did_ not."

Something passed in his clear gaze, as if he understood the unspoken meaning behind her words. A tilt of the head followed, almost birdlike, an imperceptible gesture but for how closely the girl was watching him; for he was so _different_ , she could not help but stare. Now he seemed to be in contemplation.

"Well, my young lady," the Elf said at last. "Why did you bid me here?"

In the bewilderment of the encounter the girl had almost forgotten that it was she who had waved down the horse and rider. She cleared her throat.

"I wanted to know – I was supposed to ask any travellers – about the road to the Old Forest," she said. "If they – I mean if you – be familiar with the land, I would be obliged if you could draw up a map of some sort concerning the path there."

Another birdlike tilt of the head, this time followed by a not-so-imperceptible quirk of the brow. "I am afraid that I can provide no more than vague directions. Why do you so ask?"

"My sister bid me do so – she insists that there will be richer herbs in the forest soil."

She offered the pack to the Elf. "I have been looking for them all evening. They are sparse around here; tedious to find."

Something like a shadow passed over his brow. Wordlessly, the traveller sifted through the contents. The girl frowned as he lifted some herbs from the pack. "What do you see?"

Gently he placed the plants into her open palm. "My lady, but these are poisonous."

"They are _not_." she replied indignantly. "I mean no harm to anyone. Do not draw such assumptions."

Suddenly, the stranger stepped back. He touched a hand to the mane of his horse.

"I will show you the herbs you seek. What you hold are deceitful imitations."

Unease rose in her chest. She cast her glance back at the empty plains stretching into a darkening sky, the flat heather golden under the fading sunlight, and the birch trees casting long shadows over the soil. She was gripped with doubt.

"How can I trust you?"

She thought that the Elf sighed; she could not be sure.

"It is your choice to make. But promise me, my lady, not to administer those herbs."

His grey eyes flickered away from her, down towards the winding road. Like the brooks over the rocks, he was slipping away. He meant to pass fleeting as the rushing water.

The girl supposed that such was the way of folk like him.

But it would not do. She could not afford to accept such half-truths and dark remarks. She sucked in a sharp breath.

"Show me then, my lord."

The Elf smiled. His grey eyes were depthless, deep and warm. "Do not bother with titles. My name is Pelior; we are acquainted now."

* * *

Eroth twirled the quill between her fingers, hissing as it fell from her grasp. Pooling ink trickled along the open parchment. The elleth snatched it away before any more harm could be done, but her painstaking sketches were already stained. She looked helplessly down at the ruined map.

The ornate title she had taken many tries to mould into elegance, erasing all clumsy strokes and then starting anew. The northern corner of the map had already been marked out in charcoal; a rough structure still, but Eroth had taken pride it.

Alas, it was all for nought. In spite she swept the parchment from the table and rose sharply, biting down upon her lip. Her fingers yearned to grasp the handle of a dagger, to sense the low hum of a drawn bow. She considered abandoning her task if only for a moment's respite - if only to feel the familiar power of a weapon, or the lure of a book. The green door by the bakery swam into her mind.

Clasping her elbow, she came to stand at the tent's opening. The evening had fallen damp and cold and the elleth could feel the chill of gathering clouds. She shivered and crossed her ankles as well, as if she could ward off the biting wind.

Eroth started. Footsteps were whispering across the grass outside. She shrunk back, curling her fingers around the back of her neck, listening with a tilted head. As it was, she had not the grace to accept visitors at such a time, and in such a mood.

The day had passed and soured in idleness. Eroth had walked through Esgaroth's streets before the rain came, tracing out pathways for her hapless map. She saw nothing of the boy and his sister, and heard not the song again. The elleth ached for the soothing hush of the forest. Silence here was hollow, and din jarring. Often she lay awake in the early hours of dawn, waiting for the songs of birds which never came, trying to catch the murmurs of branches over the hiss of the river.

She could hear its waters still, the hasty currents rushing over sandy banks, but the sound was not alone in the stillness of dusk. The footsteps were nearing.

With a frown Eroth threaded fingers through her hair, smoothing out the snarls. It seemed that hospitality of some sort would be necessary. Grudgingly she tugged down the sleeves of her shirt and, having deemed herself adequately presentable, leaned back against the tent, awaiting the visitor.

It was not Legolas. Worse yet, it turned out to be an encounter she had been expecting with dread.

" _Le suilon atar_." she greeted.

" _Ci maer (are you well)_ Eroth?" Her father parted the curtains and stepped in. He did not look angered; rather, he seemed oddly resigned.

"I am well," she replied, retreating further into the interior of the tent. "How fared the meeting with the Master of Esgaroth?"

Kneeling down she lighted another lamp, trying to ease the evening's darkness. In the glow of the flame Eroth saw that weariness lined the face of her father, and the usual severity of his countenance seemed marred by something old, something _tired_. It was surely a trick of the light.

"The meeting proved somewhat tedious," Balthoron murmured. His gaze suddenly sharpened again, like the flash of a blade unveiled from cloth. "But that would already be known to you, would it not?"

Eroth's heart leapt to her throat. "How so, _atar_?" she enquired, pleasant.

She met her father's gaze evenly, her chin lifting into defiance when she saw the accusation there. _So be it._

"How so indeed," her father said, " _lathron_?" _(eavesdropper)_

Eroth frowned. "Father, do you doubt my integrity?"

A wry smile seemed to pass over his lips.

"I meant no harm," Eroth murmured.

"I know you did not." Balthoron softened, clasping his hands behind his back. He observed that the tension did not leave the elleth's shoulders, and though she lowered her head, her eyes were watchful of his every move. He had taught her well.

"However," he spoke, "there is another matter which has… recently… come to my knowledge."

This time his daughter's frustration became evident. Her brow remained smooth but Balthoron caught the nervous motion of her fingers as they clenched. He was almost tempted to let the matter drop, had it not been a father's duty to issue due admonishment.

"It seems," he continued softly, arching an eyebrow, "that you have caused quite a _spectacle_ of yourself yesterday morn. Is that correct?"

Eroth looked as if she would protest; instead she spoke quietly, her voice low and steady – almost as if to counter his. "'Tis true that I was involved in the incident."

It was an elusive answer. "Do you realise your error, _lellig_?"

Her eyes darkened imperceptibly. "I was not aware that I had committed a fault."

Balthoron tilted his head. His daughter had come close to undermining the dignity of the Elves. If she accepted the warning, further such rashness would be prevented. He wanted to hear no more strange tales of an _elleth_ diving into mortal rivers.

"You allowed impulse to rule over your better judgement."

"A child's life was at stake!" Eroth hissed. Her hands had clenched into fists by her sides.

Balthoron regarded her flushed cheeks coolly. "The mortal boy could have done so without your reckless input."

"I did what was expected of the Elven kind. Assuredly, that was not to stand by demurely, straightening my skirts while the river was snaring a mere girl in its currents –"

"Lease your temper, _lellig_."

Eroth raised her chin. "That's what you always say when your argument fails."

"It is what I warn of you when you refuse to consider matters _reasonably_."

He stepped forward, a sigh escaping him. His daughter was almost as obstinate as he had been in his youth; it was in those moments that the advisor wished Eroth had grown up to be more like her mother.

Balthoron laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. When he spoke his voice was no longer stern, and he had lost the cold, birdlike tilt of the head. He was no interrogator.

"You endangered yourself, my daughter. I could not stand to see that happen. I have warned you once in Greenwood, and I will warn you again. Walk not into trouble. Do I have your promise?"

"Aye, _atar_. You have my promise."

But both father and daughter knew well the old fireside saying: _uuma ten' rashwe, ta tuluva a lle._

* * *

 ** _Translations:_**

 _Lellig – my daughter_

 _Uuma ten' rashwe, ta tuluva a lle – look not for trouble, for it will come to you_

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _Hey guys! I hope you are all doing well! A different story is unfolding on the other side of Middle Earth - yes, Eroth's traveler brother is not quite rid of mortal doings yet. Where do you think this will lead? As for Balthoron, are his parenting skills in need of improvement?_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : I hope you are feeling better! Sleep a lot, take walks, drink water. Hydration is important :p_

 _I am very excited to show you the answers to all those questions, alas they will be duly revealed in another day. For the moment, prepare for some elven antics in the coming chapters ;) For her part, Eroth has been assigned with the role of drawing a map for the reparations of Lake Town, though Arandrin is being strangely secretive about it. Is it just the leader's singular character, or is there something more?_

 _I'm glad that you liked the Epping family! Nym and Ehlark do seem like they end up in all sorts of troublesome situations - they remind me a little of Eroth and Legolas. Your response to the daisy chain made me smile - a lot. Thank you! I enjoy this as much as you do, so be assured that there will be more!_

 _By the way, what is your elven name mellon (if you have decided on one)?_


	26. Green Door Yonder

**Chapter 27 – Green Door Yonder**

It was a fine afternoon, with the sky clear and the sun slanting down upon the streets, untainted by cloud or mist. Since it was the last day of the working week, tradition dictated that fishermen from the town gathered into their favoured inns, singing and conversing through evening and twilight.

Although, as it were, drinks were ample and it was often not long before conversation rose into arguments, and the singing turned into tuneless wails which gave the bartender a headache for hours to come.

Such was the circumstances in which the old friends met, still unfortunately suffused in the smell of their day's catch, in the inn by the river. Soon the strength of their beverages brought warmth to their brows and a swell to their spirits. They hung their heavy fishing coats on the backs of their chairs, and ordered another round of drinks.

That was when the opening of the door let in an icy drought of evening air, sending shivers through their newly exposed tunics. The string of bells by the handle clanged sharply. In irritation one of the fishermen turned, ready to hurl out a bout of insults, and stopped short.

For a moment the man was sure that the drink had finally gone to his head. His bottle of rum, unlike the milder meads of his friends, was making his head swim and temples throb. In his significantly intoxicated state, the intruder of the bar seemed to be walking from a dream.

The first thing he noticed was the cap, tilted impishly over her head; and a fine thing it was. He could tell that it was silken at a glance, a beautiful cerulean silk with indigo tints which shimmered beneath its surface like reefs under a dusk sea. Adorning its comely hem was a pattern of twining vines of a craftsmanship he had only yet seen on tapestries, the red hue an echo of the satin hair tucked beneath.

It was then that he forgot all about the cap, with all its soft silk and twilight colours. Her hair was unbound and framed her face like a cloud; drifted down her slender neck in smooth waves. Like crinkled velvet. He was reminded of the cornfields of his childhood, which always seemed to catch flame under a noon sun. Vaguely, he concluded that the girl should be draped in silk and jewels, not clothed in a simple shirt and course slacks, with only a cap to adorn her beautiful air.

She turned, and he sucked in a breath. The lass had eyes the colour of rain. Stormy against her young face and porcelain skin.

He ducked his head back around and pushed against his neighbour. The man, who had been nursing a jug of ale, spilled his drink and glared back at his drunken friend.

"Look _there_ ," he urged, his words slurring heavily upon his tongue. "Do you see her too?"

The man set down his ale and looked backwards. "Of course. She is no ghost."

His friend drew back, frowning, affronted by the indifferent remark. Meanwhile, the rest of the company had noticed the cause of the disturbance. The girl was now conversing lowly with the bartender, an elbow resting upon the counter, her head tilted in interest. A murmur of speculation passed through the friends.

"I do not trust her nymph-like manner," one muttered.

"You are mistaken," said another, his voice hushed. "You see here the grace of an elf maiden."

"She is an angel, not a nymph!" The drunken man clamoured. He was silenced by a look from his more sober companion.

"She is _neither_ , you oaf." The man leaned forward upon the table with an air of superior knowledge, an amused look in his dark eyes. The bickerers halted in their speech. "She is as the trees and the rivers; a creature of peace and fury. Depending on which side of her blade you happen upon."

The first speaker merely grunted and grumbled, turning the bottom of his mug up to the low ceiling beams.

"Either way," he said slowly, "there is a fierce look about the lass. No decent girl should have that look."

"Girl?" The dark-eyed man evinced grim smile over the edge of his pint. He stretched out his legs in the complacent manner his companions were accustomed to seeing. "This is no girl."

"Who is she then, pray?" his friend challenged.

"Do not be deceived by the youth in her eyes. I dare say that she is older than you and I."

The bitter one snorted. "Wasted all her years on tree-hugging, so I hear."

The drunken man looked up blearily, in vague bewilderment, as the girl left the counter to circle back towards the inn's exit. He reached up and tightened his collar, for the unfolding of the door had brought in another blast of cold wind, and his muttered curses were drowned out by the harsh tinkling of the bells.

* * *

Eroth grit her teeth as the cold once again assailed her face and hands. She pressed the cap down lower over her ears, and started down the street. _Two streets down away from the river. The green door around the corner._ The bartender wasted no words.

The elleth cast a look back at the inn. She had ordered a drink after the enquiry, curiousity overtaking her better judgement, and wished she had brought a flask of water to rinse her mouth. It had neither the taste nor the strength of Elven wine.

Soon Eroth found herself standing before the familiar door to Epping's Bakery. It was just before dinnertime, and the sky was darkening from blue to black. Another gust of harsh wind tore through the street, and the elleth bound up the steps, hesitating in the doorway.

 _Ring the bell and I'll know it's you._ She found the bell hanging in the shadow of a beam, tugged at its string, and waited.

Erewhile footsteps sounded out within, a light patter of slipper-clad feet. Someone fiddled at the lock within, and the door creaked open slightly, bathing the door step with golden light.

A smile danced onto the elleth's features. "We meet again, little one."

Nym looked up at her, chewing on her lip, before opening the door wider.

"Hello," muttered she with a shy smile, before casting a look over her shoulder. "Ehlark, mother! It is the lady."

Erewhile Eroth found herself once again in the little parlour full of curiosities, where the fire was brighter and warmer than ever, and a large white cat lay curled up on the rug.

"Regal as an emperor, she is," Ehlark remarked, greeting her with a wry smile. "Her name is Balin."

He led Eroth through another door and into a narrow kitchen. The elleth ducked low to avoid a string of onions, only to nearly collide with a basket of unknown vegetables. The sound of sizzling rose from a slew of pans in the corner, and under the illumination of hanging lamps a crooked shelf of plates clung to the wall. Slivers of wind stirred the smoke from the fire, whispering in from open windows.

The sky outside was a deep blue now, and the evening's frost clouded the glass panes, flickering golden from the candlelight. At the end of the kitchen was a round table covered with white cloth, ornamented with a vase of violets. Beside the flowers sat a bowl of unknown substance.

Approaching it curiously, Eroth lifted a spoonful of the mixture. It had the look of gruel.

"What is this?" she asked, then quirked an eyebrow. "Why do you laugh?"

"We call it porridge, my lady," Ehlark said. "Made from milk and oats."

"That is curious." Eroth was under the impression that oats were feed for horses. "May I taste it?"

"Do feel free. We have no courtesies here." Gwen had entered the room, folding up some thick gloves. She was wearing a faded blue apron, to which Nym was clinging, peering out from behind its hem. With an encouraging look from her mother, the girl clambered onto a chair at the table.

Eroth lifted the oats to her lips and tasted it cautiously. She wrinkled her nose. _Why did Haradar like them so much?_

"The food of Men is very different."

"You should hear of some practises in this town." Ehlark drew out a chair. "There is a penchant here to soaking cooked rice in wine; an elegant dish, but rare."

"Indeed?" Eroth mused. "It seems somewhat of a waste of good wine." Such practises would have been ill tolerated under the trees of Greenwood.

"I hear that the Elves of the Woodland Realm are very fond of such beverages."

"That," the elleth said, smiling, "I cannot deny."

She accepted the seat, and was surprised to find that the table was rather low to the touch. Eroth leaned her elbows upon the surface.

"If the ways of men seem so strange," said Ehlark, "the ways of the Dwarves must be quite astonishing."

She folded her hands under her chin. "How so?"

"Ripped meat straight of the bone they prefer, in great halls underground, beside roaring fires."

"That is not so different from the ways of my kin."

"I thought the Elves were dainty folk, more gentle in manner." There was incredulity in his tone. "Is that not so?"

Eroth smiled. "We do have our delicacies. Nonetheless you think of the ways of Lorien, or of Imladris. In my dwelling there is many a merry gathering. You should see the Great Hall at night. Under the bright glow of lanterns the long tables are laden with all sorts of game from the depths of the forest, and we would dance and sing 'till the sun rose over the branches, and the lanterns were no longer needed. 'Tis truly a sight for sore eyes."

She looked at Ehlark, her eyes shining. "The Elves of Greenwood are raised to be hunters and warriors. 'Less wise and more dangerous' they say of us." Eroth smirked. "It is not particularly wise a proclamation, when it is known that we are dangerous."

"My lady, you were tutored in fighting?"

"One could say so," Eroth said slowly. An image came to her mind, one of a pale spring morning, and two elflings in the shadow of a boulder. _Will you teach me now, Thranduilion?_ An answering smirk. _That would depend on my mood._

"But that is a different story."

* * *

"Have you seen her?"

Legolas looked at the figure of the bartender before him, who sat hunched despondently over a glass. There was no break to his rigorous polishing. The ellon narrowed his eyes. _Where had his friend disappeared to?_ It was futile to predict what specimen of trouble the elleth had gotten into this time.

When the customer repeated his enquiry, the bartender lifted an eyebrow.

It appeared that strange folk were frequenting the town this day. He looked down at the glass in his hands; it now shone with a rarely acquired sheen. "Of whom do you ask?"

"The girl with the silken cap and black trousers." There was a note of impatience to the customer's voice.

The man paused in his ministrations. "Slim, pale, hair like a blackbird's beak? Aye, I have seen her." He set the glass aside and displaced a bottle from the shelf, applying his cloth to it with renewed care, and grunted out, "I won't be forgetting a face like hers. A real looker, ain't she?"

"Well." The enquirer sounded displeased. "Where did she go?"

The man was becoming irritated. His next reply was dismissive. "She's around an' about. Didn't see her go; I don't watch my customers turn the corner of the street, ye know. Got my own business to look after."

Legolas drew himself up, tapping long, slender fingers upon the wooden counter. The bartender looked up. He had expected some unruly lad looking for his girl; someone with pink fingers and dirty nails. His bewildered glance was met with icy blue eyes, inquisitive but keen beneath dark brows. They were clear as streams and wise – a strange wisdom for a lad so evidently young. The man was reminded of the elm tree in the market place, with its ancient branches strewn with tattered ribbons of well-wishing, so wise it was believed to be.

This enquirer was lean and tall, golden-haired, and held himself with regal grace. The man swallowed furtively. Decidedly not one of the gangly youths who snuck into his larder at night and cracked the crated eggs.

"When did she pass, sir?"

There was a queer, soft tenor to the stranger's voice, which he had not noted before. This customer was not from Lake Town. He was not from the North.

The bartender laid aside his cloth.

"She came just this afternoon, sir. 'Afore teatime. I remember serving bread and cheddar before she walked in." He drew himself up straighter. "Got her a roll and a pint of ale. Perhaps it was too strong for the lass; she only sipped."

A glint passed through the enquirer's eyes, but in a blink his pale brow was smooth again. He seemed almost amused; such changeful moods. "Perhaps," murmured he. "Thank you. I will seek her elsewhere."

"You need not." The man allowed a grim smile to pass over his lips. "She is at the bakery."

A dark eyebrow was lifted.

"Two streets down," he sighed. "The green door just around the corner."

When the door once again closed, the bartender cast a glance over the counter. The table in the corner still bore its previous visitors, now bleary from wine and cheer, too absorbed in muttering and snoring to pay heed to anything beyond the bridge of their noses. Wearily, he sank back into his seat, rubbing his temples. The rumbling snores did not help his predicament.

Slowly, his brows drew together. That serene youth with his curious grace and piercing glance – he thought he knew his identity.

The man took no fancy to fireside tales, but he remembered those who spoke of the fair folk who dwelt ever in the shade of the trees, and who gazed upon starlight and danced away their eternal lives in song and mirth. Yet trouble had clouded the brow of his visitor.

It seemed that myth belied the Elves; they were no absent muses, lost in dreams and the ebbing of time. Keen still was their gaze and sure their hands, which held gracefully the cool weight of a bow or the hilt of a sword, wielding and weaving their secret tales, and setting their songs to drift down the river of yore, steadily, serenely as a morning mist.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _I hope you enjoyed this chapter! After seeing so much things through the eyes of Elves, I wanted to climb into the bodies of mortals for once - and here it is! It's easy to forget just how different, how strange these Wood-elves are to those folk of Lake Town._

 _ **Guest** : unfortunately, I'm not very keen on a legolas/eowyn pairing, but if ever I change my mind I will tell you!_

 _ **Aralinn** : hello again! Thank you for your feedback! I admit the plot line isn't very much of a long straight lane at the moment, but I guess you'll just have to wait and see ;)_

 _ **Me And Not You 1001** : thank you for your review! I'm glad to know that my story has grown in some way, and that it means something to you. Happy reading!_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : once again your review has got me grinning stupidly at the phone - hannon le! I was a little hesitant in introducing another character and yet another mystery, so I was relieved that you enjoyed Pelior's story. I thought I'd give Legolas a little more appreciation in this chapter - I wonder if it came through? And you're right about Balthoron; but is he really the cold-hearted advisor he seems to be? Happy reading, mellon nin :p_


	27. Folly

**Chapter 28 – Folly**

When they had finished, Gwen leaned over and brusquely collected up the empty plates. The woman did so with admirable ease, balancing the dishes deftly upon her forearm, never breaking from conversation. In the late evening talk had turned from enquiries of Elven customs to the benefits of the fishing trade.

Eroth rose with her, seizing the last plate. "I want to help."

She trailed Gwen to the kitchen, watching as the sink was filled with hot water from a rusted tap. When the woman only smiled, rolled up her sleeves, and began to prepare the soap, Eroth shifted blithely to the other side. She leaned upon the table, repeating her request. Her sweetened tone did not go unnoticed.

"Nay, my lady." Gwen looked at her, her eyes sparkling. "Have you ever washed the dishes before?"

"Well," Eroth smirked at her through her lashes. "One has to learn to master."

Gwen gestured back to the table, as stoic as ever. "Fetch me the cups for the meantime, and you can try helping me in your next visit."

Eroth brightened. "I can come again?"

"Of course. My husband has yet to meet the fabled elleth of Greenwood, has he not?"

Yet again with the unbefitting titles. Eroth wondered how long it would be before they realised that she did not belong in song and lore. _No man upon a fishing boat sang of an elleth's skill in eavesdropping and firing idle arrows._

"Gwen, I wish you would call me Eroth. I am not quite so pompous yet."

"Go get the cups, _my lady_ , and then I may consider."

When Eroth neared the table, she saw that Nym had clambered onto Ehlark's knee, resisting his half-hearted attempts to remove her. The girl looked over her shoulder, a small impish smile upon her features, as if triumphant at her newly acquired seat. Eroth quirked an eyebrow, moving closer to collect the remaining crockery.

"Never," Ehlark was muttering, "Nym, what did I say about braiding your hair?"

"You'll only do it on birthdays and festivals," replied Nym promptly. "But this _is_ a special day."

"Nay," said her brother, laughing. "Not even if all of Greenwood turns up upon this doorstep. Besides, my hands are clumsy, and all I ever do is get your hair into tangles."

Both brother and sister looked up in surprise as a cup clattered over on the table. Eroth snatched it up hastily, adding it to the stack in her arms.

"No matter," the elleth murmured. "I was just… reminiscing."

 _No matter,_ she would say when Pelior brushed her hair, tugging too hard on a snarl. Back in Lorien, before the river Anduin separated them, her brother would care for her when her father did not, braiding her hair, treating scratches and scrapes, picking the white _niphredil_ for her childish wonder. _My hands may be clumsy,_ he used to reply, _but your attempts do more damage than mine._

Eroth brought the cups to the sink. Setting them down, she looked up absently and saw the pale glow of moonlight through frosted windows. A chill passed through her. The hour was nigh to return.

Having disentangled himself from his sister, Ehlark led the elleth up a flight of hidden stairs. It opened upon a hallway, through which they passed into a narrow bedroom bathed in pale cold light, furnished with two beds and a low desk.

Ehlark threw open the windows. They leaned out over the town, shadowed and grey under a dull blue sky. A thin moon rose above spired rooftops, awash with strays of cloud, illumining dimly the streets below.

"Walk east," Ehlark said. "See that small alley below?"

"I see it." It was tucked behind the main street, a crooked passage leading into the depths of the town.

"Take only left turns from there and you shall come upon the bridge."

The street directly below them was deserted, crowded into shadow by the buildings overlooking it – and yet. The elleth caught a glimpse of movement to the side, that of a figure passing onto the pavement. There was a flash of golden hair.

" _Thranduilion_ ," she murmured. "Excuse me. I will go now."

Ehlark drew the windows shut, and fastened the latch. "You will come again?"

"Perhaps; if but to miss one more meal of _lembas_. Goodbye, Ehlark."

It was a still night, free from the bitter wind of the evening. The air was cold and the shadows deep, and there was a breath of something new, like the scent of soil after the rain. Eroth closed the door softly behind her.

Someone was standing at the end of the street, tall and hooded. In silence she slipped down the steps and came to stand behind him, mere feet away, silently thanking the soft elven shoes for their stealth. Her friend stirred, turning his head slightly, as if to catch some unheard tune. Eroth stepped deftly to the side.

"I am not the wind, Thranduilion," she drawled.

Legolas whirled around, a hand flying up to catch her wrist. He stepped forward, drawing back her hood with the other, a smirk dancing upon his features. "As I am aware."

"Whatever brought you here?" Eroth queried. Legolas dropped her hand and stepped back, allowing the elleth to start down the street. As he fell into step beside her, sidestepping pools of rainwater in the sunken pavement, she met his gaze, mischievous. "Did you miss me?"

Legolas looked away. "You were not there at dinner. I – it worried me."

He stopped and turned her to face him. In the moonlight his eyes were dark, dark as coal, glinting with a hidden flame. "Where were you?" Legolas brushed her shoulder with the back of his hand, fingers nicking her jaw. "Well?"

 _Flustered_ was rarely a word to appear in Eroth's vocabulary, and neither did she intend that to change. Stalking closer, she sensed the shift from defence to offence. His hand fell from her shoulder. The elleth smiled. "I was invited to dinner."

Legolas tilted his head. "Was this the family you talked of?"

"Indeed." Eroth narrowed her eyes, her lips quirking upwards. "Why, _mellon nin_? Have you too tired of our worthy way-bread?"

"One has to be hardened indeed not to do so," muttered Legolas.

"You know, Thranduilion, I may just consider inviting you next time."

"Why, _Dree_ , that would be graciously appreciated."

"Hmm." Eroth looked up at him, biting her lip as if in deliberation. She noticed that as moonlight pooled upon the street, the shades of deep blue behind his eyes became discernible, exquisite and aquatic beneath silver-tinted lashes. It was a strange sensation; like sinking, grasping at silken water, like being left to fall. His scent washed over her, that of the forest in midsummer, of cool pine and sweet wind through the birches; he smelled so _familiar_.

Yet the way he was staring back, so painfully intent; that was not familiar.

Her breath snagged in her throat. She must have imagined the way Legolas seemed to lean a little closer, the tips of their noses mere inches apart, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. A small smile seemed to play upon his lips, elusive as shadows beneath the leaves. Eroth remained still, guarding that tantalising distance, eager to flee; yearning to stay.

Suddenly, Legolas smirked and the elleth felt her cap being snatched from her head.

Eroth stumbled back, bewildered. The ellon had danced away from her, holding the silken object in his hands, his eyes glinting in challenge. Her eyes narrowed. _What an admirable display of folly._

"How you will regret this," she whispered.

The wrath in her glance must have warned Legolas of her intent, for he took to his heels fleetly down the street. The elleth did not hesitate in following.

* * *

When the first stars came out the Elf pointed them out to her, speaking their names in a soft, low tongue. Their steed had slowed from its heady gallop. The wind swept through the long grass with its bleak sighs, and the wild plains rippled before them, a sea of murmuring grey.

The girl no longer feared the darkness.

Perhaps it was the bright moon and its crown of starlight. Or maybe it was the presence of the traveller behind her, his hands steady and sure upon the reigns, his voice soothing as a lullaby. A stranger still and yet he seemed an old friend already. Perhaps this was what it felt like to have an elder brother.

"Thank you," she said. "For finding the herbs. My father needs them dearly."

A short silence. "He is ailing?" Pelior said.

"May it not be so any longer."

"If you so need I –" he broke off. "Left or right, my lady?"

They had come to the meeting of two paths. "Left," she replied, craning her head around to look at him. "What did you ask?"

But he was silent now, contemplating. Erewhile he began, "the botanical uses of these herbs are bountiful. But one has to have good knowledge of how to use them. I can help you, my lady."

 _Could she trust him?_ The girl brushed away the thought; this traveller's intent was not in question. There seemed to be an easy grace about him, some bright spark within that called for her faith. An elven attribute, perhaps. She cared not. He held more wisdom in his palm than the tomes of all the elders of the village; of that she was certain.

Slowly, she gave her answer. "We would greatly appreciate it, Pelior."

Now, there remained only the formidable matter of convincing her family.


	28. Eloen

**Chapter 28 – Eloen**

 _This chapter was posted again. To those of you who could not open the link the first time - I'm sorry for the confusion! And for those who have already seen this - there is another chapter in store for you :p_

* * *

The plains were far behind them as they rode through the scattered birches, past their naked barks silver-grey in the moonlight. The girl had mentioned the existence of some shortcut across a river, impassable by horse, which would have greatly shortened the journey. The settlement, she had told him, was concealed somewhere within this sparse stubble of a forest.

Pelior's hands tightened on the reigns. There seemed to be lights in the distance; a mere flicker, before passing into darkness.

"We are nearly home," said the girl.

Erewhile the elusive lights became stronger. Pelior could see the flames of torches between the trees, and beneath them the shapes of small rustic houses set low in the land. All was silent as they halted.

"We are here," his guide said. Her voice was strangely hushed.

Swiftly the ellon dismounted and secured his horse to a nearby tree. When he turned the girl was pressed across the horse's back, struggling to reach the ground. Scolding himself for forgetting such a matter, Pelior reached up and grasped her arms, gently lifting her from her saddle.

"Where do we go now?" he enquired quietly.

"Follow me."

She led him down an uneven dirt path through the village. The silent houses stood sentinel around them, dark but for the glimmer of smoke through chimneys and the blink of a candle within. Pelior started at a sound of snuffling by his feet, only to find with amusement that it was but a huddle of pigs, drowsy with the summer heat.

Turning, he saw that the girl was standing before a door. She beckoned him near.

Her arm was slung across the curtains at the entrance, barring access. There was a nervous tilt to her lip. "There remains a slight complication."

Pelior tilted his head. He could hear the sounds within, of quick footsteps and clattering. "What is it?"

"My family does not particularly favour strangers." She cast him a look, and sighed. "My mother, my sister – none of them are… fond of your kind."

Pelior stood at the curtain, his resolve wavering. He was in no spirit to obtrude. Yet the healer within him murmured its duty, while the traveller was rapt with fascination.

But the girl was already lifting the curtains.

"I'm _sure_ they will not be hostile for long." With a wry smile she drew the fabric back. "Just remember; they are good people, really."

Pelior became more and more dubious of the fact as the evening wore on.

As first impressions went, the pair was greeted by a shrill cry of reproach. It came from a youthful figure at the top of the staircase, with an apron about her neck and two mugs in hand, who had halted abruptly at their entrance.

" _Winifred!_ " she repeated sharply. "How _dare_ you! Staying out there so late – I was in fits with worry – and mother, how must _she_ feel?"

The girl flinched as she flew down the stairs. Only this second attempt did not reach its end either, for she stopped short again. Her gaze had fixed upon Pelior. Sharp blue eyes skimmed briefly, alarmingly, over him, before skirting towards her sister once again.

"Who is _that_?"

Somewhat perturbed, Pelior inclined his head. "I am but a guest, my lady."

"Why is he here, Winifred?" The sharp gaze was stilled turned away from him. "How comes he to call himself a guest?"

"I am sorry, Pelior," the girl said hastily. "My sister is being a poor host."

"I hope you realise, Winifred," was the fierce reply, "that our home is no hostelry."

Pelior became aware of his growing unease. It was ludicrous – he had found himself in far more precarious predicaments than a sisterly brawl. Any yet he was relying upon a mere girl to defend him.

"Oh, _Eloen_ ," she was saying, her voice pleading. " _Do_ have some grace. He has come to help our father. He's a healer."

The reply was brittle. "He's an Elf."

Winifred sucked in a breath. "Well, he is _kind_. And learned in herblore." She turned to Pelior. "Aren't you? Show her, Pelior."

"My lady-" he began.

"Winifred, he cannot be trusted. He is a stranger."

"He will _save father._ "

There was a pause. Eloen's eyes flickered towards Pelior, and for a moment there seemed to be a shiver of doubt behind them. Carefully, she stepped down onto the base of the staircase. The mugs were set down on a table.

"Wendy? Take these to the kitchen."

The girl left his side hesitantly. Throwing one last look back, she snatched up the mugs and disappeared behind a narrow doorway.

Now that they were alone, and that tension in the air was cooling somewhat, Pelior decided to step forward. His host halted him with a wave of the hand. Her blue eyes were still haughty, but out of the shadow of the stairs she seemed more youthful, more troubled.

When Eloen spoke, her voice was softer, but by no means affectionate. "By some silly notion, my sister is set upon trusting you."

"'Tis not a trust I will betray."

She shifted slightly. "You may stay. However, understand that we are not easy puppets for your ignoble ways. The men in this village are armed, and even elven arrows are futile against a dozen pitchforks. Beware of such things as you practise your art."

Pelior smiled. "You threaten me, my lady."

But she had already turned away. "Dinner is in the kitchen. I expect Wendy will show you there. It's cold, but you have suffered worse." Her steps paused upon the staircase. "And drop the titles, if you please. Around here we are coarse folk."

* * *

That night the stars came, and glistened over the town upon the lake. By dawn their light had sunken into the land, clinging to the silvery morning mists. It was this sight that drew the elleth from her tent, in those pale hours, to stray down near the river.

It was not a working day. The town slept, peaceful as a child, and all was quiet as Eroth crossed the little arched bridge, and found herself once again amidst the ruins. The morning light slanted over the piles of timber and the grey rubble. Tomson's sign was as it had been before, tender and worn. _Ye Olde Sweet Shop._ Eroth bent down and ran light fingers over the wooden edge.

Seating herself beside it, she rested her chin upon her hands, gazing out onto the ruins. Alone with the mist and stone, Eroth felt the weight of the days lift from her heart. She no longer needed to be duty-bound, no longer needed to be an advisor's daughter or one of the 'fabled woodland folk'. She was no one but _Dree_ ; troublesome, unruly Dree, who, as far as some were concerned, was always running wild in the woods somewhere or conceiving new antics to nettle the elders.

Her kin of lore and myth drank from starlight and danced, guileless in mist and dew. Wisdom was in their hearts always, and thus their hands were always sure, their feet steady. Love sought them and bound them, and did not shroud itself in shadows and evade definition.

First acquaintance was not – Eroth's lip curled – snuffed because a certain princeling had tackled her to the ground in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 _I would not have disturbed you had I known your current involvement._ Those were Istuon's words. Ah.

She felt realisation dawn. When one found two young Elves tangled up in the grass when the sun had barely risen, _fighting_ was not the first thought to come to mind.

All previous assumptions were beginning to unravel. She remembered her fury, her bewilderment, when Legolas' hands had pressed down into the grass beside her. There had been no goal in her mind but to somehow procure the letter from his ignoble guardianship, and stem all possibilities of him quoting further from its contents. She had cared not about his body, lithe and lean above her, the dew clinging to his pale hair, and his complacent smirk did nothing but provoke her further. Eroth buried her head in her hands.

To an onlooker that familiar, roguish quirk of lips would have seemed suggestive, flirtatious. In truth, Legolas had flirted with nothing that day but a formidable fate under an elleth's wrath.

Too late, she felt a smile break through her disconcertion, silvery laughter escaping her fingers. Eroth doubted that Legolas had ever flirted, so to speak, in his immortal lifetime. The idea of her friend engaged in any form of amorous activity was so improbable and entirely inappropriate that it became helplessly amusing.

The way to an elleth's heart was not conventionally paved with tree-climbing, cellar-scouring, and hiding in forest creeks.

Suddenly, Eroth started upright. The sound of singing, low and mournful, was drifting down the river.

She clambered over a fallen slab and brushed the dust from her clothing. There the boat was, serene as the mists which chased it, passing under the little bridge. The elleth rushed down the banks.

There, indeed, was the tangle of nets and the blue mesh cages. There was the great coat which smothered its wearer. And there, too, was the man himself. His head was lowered, showing the streaks of grey in his hair. The melody flowed gently as it had before, drawing her nearer.

This time, the river was narrow enough around the bend for her to leap and land lightly upon the boat. Eroth seated herself by the hull and smiled.

The man was leaning back as far as the boat allowed, an expression of such bewilderment and shock upon his pale face that Eroth started to regret her decision of impulse. Perhaps her entrance was rather ill-chosen; and abrupt. She must remedy that.

Remembering the ways of mortals, she held out her hand. "Greetings, sir. I hope you are well?"

His colour was slowly returning to his cheeks. Eroth smiled again as he tentatively grasped her outstretched fingers and shook it, murmuring a greeting in return.

Satisfied with the proceedings, the elleth sank down into the boat. Now that her face was level with his, Eroth could make out the fine wrinkles around watery blue eyes, an eccentric brow, and the blotches of colour high on his remarkable pale skin. "Of what do you sing?"

"Oh, nothing and everything." Something flashed in his eyes. Eroth realised that he was _nervous_. Was her presence so very threatening?

"The prophesy," she insisted softly. "The lord of silver fountains shall come onto his own. Do you truly believe it?"

A shrug of the shoulders. "What is left but to believe?"

Eroth leaned forward eagerly. "The King beneath the mountain, that is Thror, is it not? And the line of Durin passes to Thrain, then Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield."

"You speak true, my lady."

All was silent but for the gentle lap of the river upon the boat. Eroth rested her chin upon her hands. "What is your name, good sir?"

"Tomson, they call me. Ambrose Tomson."

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _Hey guys! I know that at the moment this chapter seems like nothing but a drawn out wink; but all will become clear, I promise! Pelior's journey was my experiment with a different cast of characters - I would love to know what you think about them._

 _By the way, I have added another part to the beginning of Chapter 5 (Towards the Old Forest Road), so if you are feeling like a bit a reminiscing, do have a look :p_

 _ **Aralinn** : oh, one does wonder ;) Either way, I think that he is really rather oblivious to everything that it going on in Eroth's head - which, frankly, is all very tangled. Happy reading!_

 _ **Me And Not You 1001** \- thank you for your review! It's always good to know that I am steering things in the right direction (because to be honest at the moment I'm not even sure where this story will fly off to). I hope this chapter revealed some more about the girl, and just what Pelior has gotten himself into!_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** \- firstly, thank you for making my day drastically better. And yes - I did have a lovely time depicting the drunken men (writing its my kind of fun, after all). I would say that Eroth's visits to the bakery are borne of a mixture of fascination, curiosity, boredom and reasons known only to herself. But then again, Balthoron and Arandrin aren't exactly the greatest forms of company. I'm glad you appreciate the abundance of twists; as it goes, the last chapter was basically a pretzel. Now that I've introduced you to Wendy's family: what are your thoughts? Its all going to get very interesting... And also, did I mention that this made me really happy (I think so, but I'll say it again) :p_


	29. Tender is the Night

**Chapter 29 – Tender is the Night**

Gwen was smiling. Her guest of late was back again, and she had introduced Hendrick to not one, but two Elves of the Woodland Realm.

Now her husband was sitting with them in the parlour, the light of fascination in his eyes, as they warmed themselves by the fire. The second visitor was an ellon, fair of face, who spoke softly and lowly and laughed with mirth. There was light upon his brow and hair, undeniable yet intangible as a fading tune. He had an intent way of looking, like a thousand musings burned like flames behind his eyes, passing and flickering and kindling anew.

Balin, the white cat, had taken a liking to him. He was stroking long fingers along her fur, absent, staring into the fire.

Gwen left the shadow of the doorway and set the tray of tea and biscuits upon the table. She was greeted by a soft murmur of thanks, and then companionable silence. It was late, dinner was finished, and men, elf and cat were lulled by the warmth of the flames. Eroth was curled up upon the sofa with her feet tucked beneath her, an otherworldly sight still in her humble surroundings. There was a book within her hands, one taken from the shelf, and she was gnawing upon her lip in concentration.

The woman was loath to disturb her. But her curiosity must be sated. Gwen leaned close and laid a hand upon the pages of the book. Eroth's gaze flickered upwards. She beckoned for the elleth to follow.

Once they were in the kitchen, Gwen pointed towards the sink. She quirked an eyebrow, "you wanted to wash the dishes, Eroth?"

The bait was taken. Eroth approached her, unsuspecting, and began to tackle the rusty tap. She looked up at her and flashed a crooked smile. "You called me by my name."

Amused, Gwen leaned over her shoulder. She twisted the tap, hard, "like this."

Again her teeth nipped out to bite her lip. "I see."

As the elleth occupied herself with tackling the pile of crockery, Gwen decided to introduce the subject. "Forgive a prying question – it is Legolas, is it not?"

Eroth assented. She was rubbing the towel gingerly over a plate, drying it as delicately as if it were fine china. Gwen smiled encouragingly as she glanced over. "Tell me about him," she continued gently.

Eroth shifted and set the plate aside. Her grey eyes were fixed upon the bottom of the sink, at her hands steeped in the foam of the water. Gwen could no longer read her demeanour.

"He is the Prince of Greenwood."

"Is that all he is to you? A Prince?"

A fleeting smile passed over her lips. "Nay, Gwen. Not ever." Eroth brushed back a stray copper lock with her hand, and when she drew it away the soap from the sink glistened in her hair. "He has the heart of a forest, the hands of the warrior," she turned to her, "and the eyes of a friend."

"So 'tis just friendship you share."

"Yes." The reply was brief, sharp as the lash of a whip.

Gwen almost laughed. "Such fairness and grace, Eroth. He seems young, but he has the strength of a river within him. There must be many in your realm who speak of his charms." A sly smile curled at her lips. "And yet you say that he is nothing but your friend."

The words were met with silence. Her lip trembled. Gwen felt the strange urge to put her arms around the elleth; so brittle, so _young_ did the elleth seem now. But her answer came hard as glass, and burnished.

"What others think of him is not my affair. What he thinks of _me_ is clear."

"And how can you be so sure?"

"Gwen," Eroth sighed. "For ten centuries I have known him."

"So you say to yourself." The woman leaned closer. She wondered briefly whether she was demanding too much, but something made Gwen want to shake her from that deliberate slumber. "You look at him as if you are lost."

She had seen them that night. Strange figures they had seemed, tall and fair, shadowed in the eaves of mortal buildings. Songs of yore in flesh and bone. There was no trace of the merry companion at dinnertime in the elleth she saw then. It seemed that the flimsy guises which so accommodated her to them had fell away, and Gwen had glimpsed something distant, beautiful, _immortal_ , something which had seen the strife and sorrow of a thousand years, and yet still lived in mirth. Something within her who loved; but loved with wariness.

"You are wandering, my elleth," she said. "You have wandered long."

Eroth had forsook her place at the sink. She circled behind the kitchen table, past the milk pitcher and violet vase. In earnest entreaty her hands were folded upon her chest. It was a bizarre sight, to see an ethereal elven girl flustered and pacing among Gwen's kitchen furniture. When she spoke her voice was soft, musical as always, but it shook as it never did before.

"I have known many centuries. I have seen floods rise and troubles pass. I know the fall of kingdoms and the names of the seas. Please," she stopped. "I can steer my own fate."

"But can you master your heart?"

Gwen placed a hand on her cheek. The elleth was still, her lip quivering. There was a roil of confusion in her dark eyes. "Eroth?"

"Gwen, I must leave."

"You cannot fool yourself."

She huffed out a laugh. "I thought they said that love was foolish."

"You may have heard many things on the subject of love, Eroth. The only way through it is to trust your path."

"Even when it's dark?"

In the hush of the moonlit room her voice was small, vulnerable. She was looking up at Gwen with earnest dark eyes. It occurred to Gwen that those were the eyes of a child, a girl not yet out of her youth, who yet grasped at the world in vain.

"Ay, Eroth. Especially when it's dark."

Suddenly, the elleth flinched away. Gwen sighed lowly as her gaze became shuttered once more. The familiar mask of courteous indifference came over her features. _A girl, a daughter, a warrior._ The elleth bore many burdens.

"Indeed," she said, "I have heard many words spoken of such things as love; words of warning. I will leave now, Gwen."

* * *

 _Around here we are coarse folk._ As Pelior watched the single candle flicker on the shelf, he formed the decision that Eloen certainly was not coarse. She had been acerbic, ay, and hostile, but there was something in her manner which spoke of grace. Something in the folds of her dress as she knelt beside him. Something in the scent of her hair, in the deftness of her hands. Something soft in her voice as she bid him a hushed good-night.

"Sleep well, Elf," she said. The candlelight cast blue shadows across her cheek. She looked away. "I hope you do not find this place below your taste."

Something had changed that night, when Pelior had finally coaxed their father to open his eyes upon the sick-bed. When Eloen brought in the basin of water for him to wash his face, she had glanced at him, briefly, coldly still, but Pelior caught the flash of gratitude in her eyes. Now she was kneeling beside him upon the floor, lips pursed at the heaped blankets in place of a bed. It was almost as if she cared for his comfort.

"Anyhow," the woman continued, "I suppose this is better than cold forest paths."

"Ay," Pelior said. "It is."

Another silence. The ellon was too much occupied with the small tendril of brown hair clinging to her cheek to care for speech. Eloen shifted, and the lock of hair disappeared from view as she turned from him. With a quick motion she snuffed out the candle.

"I suppose," she said in a murmur, "Winifred will be waiting."

With those words she was gone. Pelior leaned back into the pillow, and listened to the faint rustle of her white dress as she ascended the staircase.

He closed his eyes, and thought of warm brown locks, and blue eyes in the dark.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 ** _legolasgreenleaf15_** \- _as far as I am planning, the siblings' story lines are indeed going to cross - rather disastrously, as well (but don't worry, it's all going to be very exciting). I'm glad you like Eloen - she's just the sharp, cold character with secrets to hide that I'd wanted to create for a long time. But, moving on, I'm sorry! The part with Eroth in the ruins was, I admit, not exactly clear. Eroth was in fact alluding to that earlier episode with Istuon, where Legolas had stolen his love letter and then was rather abruptly discovered. God, that was a long time ago. Anyway, thank you for cringing along with her (and me), and I hope that you have enjoyed this last chapter :p_


	30. Where Shadows Sleep

**Chapter 30 – Where Shadows Sleep**

"Ambrose Tomson?" Ehlark repeated. "Old _Ambrose_ earning his living as a fisherman?" He tilted back his head and laughed. "Oh, that's rare. That's so very rare."

"Well," Eroth said, "believe what you may. He was in a fishing-boat, and the fishing-boat was holding him. I don't see why it is so implausible."

Ehlark stopped walking and looked at her, sinking his hands deep into his pockets. "I suppose, Eroth. 'Tis simply that he belongs ever to another place. As children we would peer up at him, behind that massive wooden sweetshop counter, and he'd always be humming a song of some eccentric sort. At least that has not changed."

The noon sunlight welled up from the stillness of the riverbank. They had reached the bridge. The river rushed swiftly beneath, and they could feel a thrumming force beneath their feet. Ehlark turned from her to lean over the bridge. "How did you find the bread?"

Eroth smiled. "Rather excellent. I must introduce Greenwood to the wonders of a seeded loaf."

The stonework of the bridge was warm to touch. Silver water hastened past them, mingling with the languid light. "So, Ehlark," Eroth said. "Enlighten me as to the purposes of the letter."

She had encountered Ehlark by chance upon the noon street. He was slipping something to the passing milkmaid – a fold of paper, crossed with a copper coin. It was to be passed on to some expectant recipient. The seeded loaf came later, when he had invited the elleth into the bakery, but the enigma of the letter still lingered in her mind.

"Harper," replied Ehlark simply.

Eroth quirked an eyebrow. "Harper?"

"I met her in a festival." He was smiling. His eyes were far away. "She had green ribbons in her hair, the same green as her eyes – but less vibrant. She lives on the edges of the town, at the shores of the Long Lake."

"Oh," Eroth said softly. "So you write to her often?"

"As often as I can. I do," he paused, and took a breath, "I do miss her."

Eroth looked down at the silver river. She thought of green ribbons in festival crowds, of whispered promises in alley shadows, of letters upon the doorstep under the noon light.

"Do you love her?" she asked abruptly.

"I-I've never considered it like that. But then –" he flushed deeply "– then I suppose I do."

Eroth was fascinated. _How could he admit such thing so freely?_ There was no hint of trepidation in Ehlark's voice. It was incomprehensible courage, to stare into the depths of such a monstrous sentiment, and _smile_.

Eroth reached over and took his hand, in that instant of wonder, so that she might somehow wish him well for the journey ahead down the uncertain paths of his fate.

* * *

There were two figures upon the bridge. One of them Legolas would have recognised a thousand steps away. Her face was turned from him, but Legolas was no stranger to the riotous colour of the braid down her neck. Esgaroth at noon was a white, harsh realm, its discord sparing only the silken water. It passed beneath the bridge, lending its shimmer to the waves in her hair.

This gave him pause. The youth beside her was leaning over the bridge, speaking to her.

There arose an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. He dismissed it and hastened closer. There was a place behind the Elven settlement, a certain secluded corner of the town with good flat ground and no prying eyes. He had found the right setting for sparring. Legolas longed for the ragged breath of meeting blades, the feel of shifting soil; and he knew that Eroth did too. She was growing idle in confines of her tent – perhaps this was why she had escaped to the river. Perhaps this was why she seemed so very mirthful, there beside the mortal youth.

His friend's laughter was a special thing to be heard. When Eroth laughed her lips would curl into an impish smile, endearingly lopsided, that could for a moment be mistaken for a mocking smirk – yet then her eyes would light up like sunlight through rain-clouds, and the mischievous twitch of lips would widen and become so, so earnest. She was laughing so now, and the mortal was looking at her, ceasing to speak.

"Eroth!" he called. " _manka naa lle sinome?_ " _(what are you doing here?)_

She looked up, and her smile turned immediately less warm and more wolfish. " _Manka lle irma sint?" (why do you want to know?)_

That was when Legolas saw their entwined hands, resting upon the stone of the bridge. The sunlight was cold upon his skin.

The mirth drained from Eroth's features, as if she could sense the timbre of his thoughts. As he turned, away from the river and its jarring torrents, the elleth followed him. She was behind him when he spun into another street.

"Thranduilion?"

"Thranduilion?" Eroth finally managed to gain upon his steps. "What is _this_?"

One instant she was touching a hand to his shoulder, and the next she was pinned to the spot by his dark stare, her wrist caught in his hold. She wrested it free irritably.

"And here I thought _I_ was the more unreasonable of the two. What now, Legolas? Do enlighten me on the causes of your mighty wrath."

His darkened gaze did not relent. The mockery hung in the air between them, tensile as a strung harp, and shattered noiselessly into oblivion. Eroth bit her lip in regret, and shifted closer, studying her friend's demeanour.

"Please, _mellon,_ " she murmured.

And then something passed in that shuttered gaze, so potent that it melted away the last of her anger; it was _sorrow._

" _Mani nae lle umien?_ " His answer was low, soft as sighs. _(What have you been doing?)_

"We were _talking_."

She knew not why he cared. She knew not what he sought.

And then his gaze, burning into her, smiting as summer storms. "Eroth, I – I wish you both well."

"And I wish _you_ well too," the elleth retorted spitefully. "Now, I find a ludicrous need of clarification in the form of my _friendship_ with Ehlark. I do not see how you could so misconstrue such a thing – after all, you hardly have an eye for -"

She stopped. The look in Legolas' eyes rendered her breathless. She could not remember him ever acting like this before, not even in anger. Almost lazily he skimmed his fingers along her jaw, leaving a trail of heat upon her skin.

"Then stop meeting with him."

She had endured enough. Her anger flared.

"You have no right, Princeling," she said lowly. Her grey eyes blazed. "Who I speak with is no concern of yours, and I would suggest you shut that mouth of yours with due alacrity before – "

" _Princeling?_ "

Eroth stopped, still fuming. "Princeling?" Legolas repeated incredulously.

How dared her interrupt her for a mere choice of wording, a term of – But there was a lightness in his eyes now. It irked Eroth greater than his wanton anger, and yet the elleth bit her lip, sensing a shift in the air between them. _No, it was too soon._ She had no desire to reconcile when he had started the worthless argument in the first place.

She realised that Legolas' gaze was no longer cold. There kindled a glint in his blue eyes, like melting ice. Then his lips twitched imperceptibly.

A small huff of mirth escaped her lips. This was followed by a traitorous stream of laughter that sent them both into a helpless bout of sniggering.

"You had your father's glance in your eyes then," said Legolas.

"So had you," she accused. "It was rather disconcerting. I felt like a guard who had shirked his duty."

With that, they were overcome with laughter again. Legolas clasped her shoulder fondly.

"Bother this dispute, Dree. I want to show you something."

"Now?"

"When else? Come with me. You may also need your weapons."

* * *

By the time they had retrieved bow and blade from their tents, and followed a small overgrown path to the ruins where they found themselves now, the shadows had grown long under the ripe evening sunlight. There rose a play of wind through the trees.

Eroth drew her bow swiftly, touching a finger to thrum of the string. She breathed in the cold sweet air of the shade, and of the earthy grove of young birches cradling the patch of raw soil. The place was one of those deserted edges of the town, rid of memory as torn pages from a tome; a place where shadows slept.

She felt the breath of movement as Legolas drew his bow. There came the tell-tale whisper of a nocked arrow. She did not need to look to know its path. It was that fallen pole yonder with its twisted sign.

With precise speed, Eroth pushed her friend's arm the instant the arrow was released, sending it flying off its course into the ruins beyond. She stepped aside gracefully as Legolas swung his bow sideways in mock attack, but in her mirth was unable to escape the hand that reached out to catch her wrist, pulling her towards him. Stepping forward, Legolas twisted her arm lightly behind her back.

He met her gaze and a feral smile curled at his lips. "I presume you have declared a fight?"

"We have allowed duties to consume us for too long."

Taking advantage of their proximity, Eroth reached behind his back and slid an arrow from its quiver. She pressed the feathered end to his neck. He was no friend now; with a blade in his hand Legolas had become a rival and a foe.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Do you concede?"

"Never." In an instant he had lunged forward, bringing the ground tumbling up to meet them. Somewhere through their fall Legolas had released her wrist, and she the arrow. It fell to the soil paces away. The situation demanded a swift response.

Fortunately, centuries of practise aided her purpose. As soon as her back touched the ground the elleth rolled twice to reduce impact, using the momentum to pin Legolas' outstretched arm down as she knelt over him, straddling his body.

Quick as a viper, the ellon's free hand darted towards her neck. Cunning move. Her throat vulnerable, the elleth snapped backwards. Her balance became tilted. Legolas leaned forward.

She felt the light pressure of his lips upon her cheek, a kiss of reconciliation, at the same instant her arms were pinned behind her back. Legolas' cool breath ghosted past her neck.

"Do you concede?" he murmured.

"I will consider, Thranduilion," Eroth tightened her legs around his hips as she threw herself sideways. His grip loosened.

A scissor kick on her part caused him to duck, and when he regained balance the elleth was standing, a flush against her pale skin, a smirk kindling her features. "But I have decided against it."

As she helped him from the ground, she noted with complacency a faint flush to his cheek. So she had proved a significant challenge. "Have I done you any harm, Thranduilion, apart from that to your esteem?"

"Nay," Legolas muttered, reaching a hand behind his back. He drew out an arrow from his quiver. "Nought by the feathers of my arrows, it seems."

"So," she mocked, "I have ruffled your feathers."

"As long as you do not dent my blade, you may remain in my acquaintance."

"What an honour. Why, I may just try my luck."

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _So, what do you make of their sparring? I really wanted to explore a different dimension to their friendship, and the harmony between them, as well as the aspect of rivalry which they must have maintained throughout their childhood. I hope this made you smile a little._

 _ **Me And Not You 1001:** thank you! No Pelior in this chapter - though in the next one I'm exploring a good deal of Eloen's household :p_


	31. City of Sentiment

**Chapter 31 – City of Sentiment**

The man's brow was feverish again. Pelior rinsed out a towel from the basin and laid it gently across his forehead. That day he had spoken. In a quiet, rasping voice, the father murmured something urgent about the pigs in the barn.

And then he had asked for his daughter – _No, no, not the sister. I want to see Wendy, Wendy…_

When Pelior had brought Wendy to the sickbed, his eyes had closed again. It was evening, and the slumber of the sick claimed the man still.

"Has he awakened?"

Eloen stood in the doorway. Her face was drawn and weary, and there were smudges of red about her eyes. _Had she been crying?_ In her hands she held a bowl of herbs, soaked in hot water.

"He should wake sometimes tonight," Pelior said carefully.

"Then I will take watch."

Eloen set the bowl brusquely upon the bedside table. She paused beside her father, looking down at his still features with helpless eyes.

"You should rest. I will feed him." Her gaze did not leave the bed.

"No," Pelior replied, somewhat hastily. He took up the bowl. "I am a healer, Eloen. This is my duty."

As he worked he felt Eloen shift to sit beside him. Her hands were twisting themselves upon her dress – this time one of patterned blue cloth – her knuckles white with anxiety. But when Pelior could not resist the urge to look, her returning glance was cool and serene as ever. The woman was seated somewhat stiffly on her father's rocking-chair, with her ankles crossed firmly beneath the hem of her dress to steady its motion. Eloen had become an image of composure. The ellon wondered whether it was still his presence that unsettled her so.

"Talk to me," she said erewhile. Her voice was quiet, indifferent as the murmur of the wind.

"What would you like to know?" Pelior asked. He stole another look in her direction. Her face was turned from him, and she was staring out of the window at the dull grey of treetops under the evening sky.

"Tell me about the places," she said abruptly. Keen blue eyes flickered towards him. "Tell me about where you have travelled."

And so, slowly, he did. Pelior told her of the wonders of Rivendell, its swift falling waters, its harp-song, and of the valley, so white and serene and still, in midsummer moonlight. He told her about the mallorn of Lorien, and the pale glow of _niphredil_ upon deep grassy slopes. He spoke of the shade of great pines, the secrets of wind and rivers; of the sound of distant singing on lonely winter nights, far away where the lights glittered; of dawn gossamer, bejewelled with the cool dew.

But Pelior did not speak of home – his first home – in the deep forest, where shadows flitted like spirits, and where lanterns led the wanderers astray. The land of the Elvenking upon his throne of wood, far beneath ground where the wind was silent.

He had finished speaking. Eloen was looking at him now, and he was startled to meet wide, intent blue eyes. She had sunken deeper into the chair, her head resting gently upon the back, and the gold of the setting sun cleansed the sharpness from her features. _Had Pelior mistaken the glint of warmth in her glance?_ He did not know. He was lost in the sloping waves of her hair, a secret landscape of shimmering undulations and rivers the colour of hazel.

Her voice, tinted with delight, woke him from his musings. "So that is what the world is like."

For a moment Pelior was struck with sadness. The woman before him had grown up running through flimsy dirt paths, passing through the grey birches – yet all the while she must have gazed up at the vast darkness of the night sky, and wondered at the lands which lay beneath.

"Someday you will see it for yourself," he said gently.

A strange look came into her eyes then, one of amusement; Eloen did not believe in hollow words.

* * *

Balthoron found Eroth reclining back on her mattress, her trouser-clad knees drawn up to support a spread of parchment. By the candlelight she was scrawling something upon it from her strange vantage, with her chin tucked drolly upon her chest, and then pausing to bring the end of the quill to her mouth. When her glance upwards caught that of her father, she ceased the injuring of her writing instrument, and sat up to greet him.

" _Atar_ ," she said, "do look over this map for me. I am afraid that the proportions are wrong _again_."

So his daughter had not forgotten her duties just yet. Arandrin had not failed to inform him of the task she had at hand. This assignment pleased him; there was no foreseeable way Eroth could get into danger from the composing of a map.

Balthoron spread the piece of parchment before him. It was a well-rendered scrap of work, he allowed. "Do not trouble yourself over it, _lellig_. It is accurate."

His daughter peered up at him with delight. "Truly?"

"Indeed," he replied. "Eroth, I have here a letter from your friend."

"Feredir?" she moved immediately to take the letter. "Oh, I _am_ pleased."

"Not the cook's son."

Her hands stilled in unfolding the paper. She looked at him sceptically. "Who else?"

"It is from lady Arphen. She wishes you well."

Eroth stopped. She set the letter down. " _Arphen_."

"Yes," he slid the paper towards her, "the companion and lady whom I introduced to you."

She stared at him. "But, _atar_ , that was decades ago."

Balthoron had once attempted to coax out his daughter's well-hidden feminine side by means of introducing a delightful elleth as a playmate. Eroth had emerged from the room with flushed cheeks and beseeching eyes, it being evident that their time together had not been pleasant.

To his dismay, the next day Eroth was tumbling down steep creeks with dirt in her hair and dress, the previous encounter forgotten, lost in her brand of riotous fun with the Prince and the cook's son.

Evidently Arphen had not forgotten their brief acquaintance, for as soon as she heard of Eroth's journey she had not hesitated to send her regards. A kind soul – she had most delicately smoothed over the issue of their childhood dispute.

Eroth glanced from her father to the letter on the table. It nestled innocuously between the little wrought iron lamp and cloudy ink-pot. A sliver of wax from the candle crept along the lines of the wooden surface, forming a minute river down towards to folded parchment. The elleth was loath to touch it; to acknowledge the memory it brought to light.

 _"_ _Legolas is rather handsome, don't you think?"_

 _Eroth looked up at her new companion in surprise. When she had ascertained that Arphen was in fact perfectly serious she let out a snort. "Him?"_

 _He would have to wipe that irksome smirk off his face first._

 _"_ _Indeed," Arphen stated. "I would rather like to be his lover someday."_

 _This caused Eroth to wrinkle her nose. The word lover was foreign to her. It sounded like stale wine, and its meaning, the origin of those whispers and quiet smiles, bemused her to no end. It was imponderable, this thing of love, unlike riddles or winded texts; there was no making sense of it. All Eroth did know was that it was a monstrous, looming creature, ready always to strike upon the heart. She tasted the word again. There arose a vague sense of fear._

 _She tried for a change of topic. "Would you rather not prefer to be outside?"_

 _The wind would carry that special smell at this time – the scent of spring. She could sense it, this warm fragrant breeze, ruffling the morning's webs. It was calling to her from its perch at the open window, beckoning from its land of silken gossamer and sunlit mists._

 _Arphen shook her head. "Nay, let us stay here. We can sew; I have yet to finish my embroidery."_

 _Eroth could not help it. She was in awe. "I would like to see it," she murmured, "'tis lovely that you have the patience for such a task. Legolas always said that if I wielded a needle like a blade it was no wonder I kept tearing the silk."_

 _"_ _Really?" her companion uttered absently. "I suppose you are simply not gifted for the art."_

 _With that, Arphen bent down to gather the cloth from her pouch, her dark hair slipping becomingly over her shoulders to spread across her soft blue dress._

 _Eroth felt a spike of something rise within her, sharp and bitter. It bewildered her; indeed, there was nothing in Arphen's gracious manner and gentle elegance that could offend her. As the elleth straightened, embroidery in hand, Eroth even caught a faint perfume of flowers, the kind she herself only acquired when she took a tumble from the apple tree down to the rose bed it overlooked, from her ventures into the King's gardens._

 _"'_ _Tis a shame that your friend insults you so, alas," Arphen was saying in her soft low voice. Her fingers were nimble in their threading. "If he were to pursue me I would not have him speak a word against me."_

 _Eroth looked up, for the second time that eve, with incredulous surprise. The bitter taste rushed again into her mouth. She was surely teasing her. "It was no insult, he –"_

 _"_ _Do you think he'll love me, Eroth?"_

 _The question was phrased as daintily as her person, and uttered with that dreamy look which so often fluttered to her eyes. Eroth felt her cheeks flush in inexplicable anger. The other elleth's voice was even, her look serene. It was as if she was mocking her. Either that, or she was as silly as Feredir had predicted._

 _"_ _You have no right," Eroth blurted. "He will not choose someone like you –"_

 _"_ _Oh?" Arphen's slender eyebrows rose. Her eyes were distant. "Then I suppose it would be your type?"_

 _"_ _Yes! No, I mean –"_

 _There was a hot sting of tears behind her eyes. Eroth could not believe that they were fighting over Thranduilion like two elflings in a brawl. Thranduilion, of all people! Sharply she rose, forcing a shaky smile to her face, and rushed from the room._

 _Back in the armchair, Arphen's head was bent, her dark hair falling across her eyes, calmly weaving patterns on her silken canvas._

Staring down at the letter on the table, Eroth decided to take a lesson from her younger self, and flee from the source of her unease. Snatching up the letter, she whispered that she would peruse it elsewhere, and ushered Balthoron from the tent.

Once they stepped out into the cool night, she bid her father a hasty goodnight. Her next call of farewell was already uttered from several paces away.

Balthoron watched his daughter vanish into the night. He was no fool; there was no doubt as to where she was so eagerly retreating. All he could hope now was that their friendship would withstand the trials that were yet to come.

* * *

Between them the steam from the pitcher curled its languid patterns up towards the stars of the night. They were sitting outside Legolas' tent, sharing a single lantern and vastness of the silver sky. Quietly, languorously, had they sang and talked and watched the white steam drift, far into the night where its tendrils bled into gentle darkness.

Silence had fallen upon them both. It was a good kind of silence; more eloquent than words. Tilting her head back, the elleth stretched out her fingers, as if she could grasp the stars in all their mystery. A precious eternity was nothing to them; they were as still and serene in the elleth's childhood as they were now. Yet they had not been there for many nights. And she had missed them.

Far away, the tolling of bells sounded out. Its deep tune drifted across the river, and lingered there in the starlight. The fleet-footed water hurried away the last of its notes.

"It is midnight," Legolas murmured.

Slowly, they took up the pitcher and the lantern. Eroth cast a look back at the night sky; in that moment she wished, fervently, that she could draw it from its heights like slips of silk, and gather it within also.

Once in the tent Legolas set the objects upon the low table, upon which Arphen's letter lay unopened. Neither of the friends gave it any notice as they seated themselves upon the mattress. Legolas' longbow and its quiver were still leaning against the corner of the tent, the wood gleaming lustrously in the lamplight. The steam continued to unfurl. Another silence commenced; neither was eager to part.

Finally Eroth said, "sleep now, Thranduilion. I will go."

"No," Legolas said. He sprawled back upon the mattress. "Stay."

There was something strange in those hushed words. Some secret urgency. Eroth drew her knees up to her chest. "Then I will."

Legolas smiled. He slipped his hand under his head where it rested upon the pillow. Eroth looked away when the collar of his tunic fell open, and immersed herself in humming an eccentric tune. From the opening of the tent, she could see the slivers of moonlight give way to cloud-shadow, and then shimmer out again. When darkness once again swallowed its light, Legolas spoke.

"When I return to Greenwood," said he, "my father will announce my betrothal."

His gaze remained fixed upwards. As the moonlight shifted his lips parted once more and, his words stifled, pressed together again.

"Oh," Eroth said.

"Do you think I will like her?"

Suddenly, Legolas was staring at her intently. From silence a howl started; the wind was rising in the night outside. The flame flickered.

"I-I cannot tell," she breathed.

"Somehow, I do not think I will, Dree." He looked down. "Like the sparrows do the coming of winter – I dread it."

"Do not think of it now. When the time comes, you shall be happy." Eroth's voice wavered. She leaned down and, softly as the lambent candlelight, pressed her lips to his temple. His skin was cold as silk.

"When has the King not chosen wisely?" she whispered against his ear. "He is your father more than he is Elvenking; have faith _mellon nin_."

His eyes had slid close. The soft shadows of the tent tinted his pale skin and his hair was like molten silver, loosened from its braids. A smile lingered upon his lips, such grace to behold that it seemed blinding in the darkness; bright as starlight upon the river.

Her friend would fare well with an elleth by his side, someone to kiss him goodnight and bear his troubles and tell him how beautifully his hair glowed in the moonlight. Birds of the wild who braved the bitter winter awaited a better spring.

She smoothed her fingertips over his closed lids. "Sleep now, Legolas. _Oltho vae'ne fuin hen._ " _(May you dream well tonight)_

He was drifting; the distant realm welcomed him. The lanterns would be alight to illumine the paths of slumber, wherein a feast of dreams and wine awaited, its intoxication bringing the sounds of the trees, and the taste of a woodland brook.

"Call me it again," he murmured.

Eroth stilled, her hand flinching from his fair brow.

"Legolas," she whispered.

The night was as black as it was cold. Eroth walked back across the damp grass and stopped outside her tent. She lifted the curtain and ducked within, snatching up a flask of water, and sank back on the mattress. And then the tears came.

The elleth dug her elbows into her knees and watched her tears fall onto the fabric of her tunic, of her cloak. When they did not stop, she flicked open the flask with trembling fingers and drank down the water. Still the wetness stained her cheek, so she set the flask aside and cried into her hands, alone with the crumpled white blankets and the chill wind that blew shadows into the tent.

It was the night that Eroth Dree decided that her heart be damned, she would banish all sentiments of folly like a king exiled his traitors, and burn the castle of sand to build up the walls of her city with the stone that never crumbled.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _ **Aralinn:** thank you for the feedback! I should've guessed you'd spot the slight jump in narrative in Legolas' viewpoint - I'd found that part more difficult to portray than expected. I'm glad you enjoyed the fight scene; some impromptu sparring always serves a story well ;) _


	32. Pathways

**Chapter 32 – Pathways**

When the candles were lit, the kitchen assumed an almost cheerful demeanour.

It was supper. Eloen had laid faded tablecloth over the table, which was a somewhat too short for its length, and the warm glow from the flame chased shadows across its crinkled white plains. At the far wall, over a precarious pile of pots and pans, the narrow window was fastened tight against the nightly gale. The idle chatter, the steaming stew, the candlelight upon rustic cloth – they all bode one foreign word; it was… _homely_.

Pelior did not know how, or when, it had all came to be about. A thousand years ago, when he had ridden away far down the slopes of the plains, with the forest receding into the distance, one thought had come to him: he knew no home. Sometime, some special moment during the last nights, Pelior thought he found it again. Home was the scent of brewing herbs, the patter of feet down the staircase in early mornings. It was the soft rustle of a dress, and the glint of evening sunlight in cool blue eyes.

"More soup?" Over the steaming ladle was that same pair of blue eyes. Perhaps they would haunt Pelior for the many times to come.

"No," he replied, "no, _hannon le_."

Eloen tilted her head. "What does that mean?"

"It is a phrase of thanks."

"Well," she smiled, " _hannon le_ , Pelior."

The little smile transformed her features. Something warm unfurled in his stomach. "What was that for?"

Another twitch of her lips. "Why, for all you have done for father. Surely you do not forget your patient?"

Her hair was splattered auburn by the candlelight. A stray curl brushed the junction between her shoulder and neck, dipping delicately into its hollow like a small eddy. Her skin seemed warmer than that of his kin, tinted from long days under the prairie sun. He could imagine her there in the long grass, gazing up at skies the colour of her eyes, her fingers skimming a pale green sea.

Pelior started from his rapture. A shrill voice disturbed the flame of the candle.

"Speaking of patients, Eloen, I will retreat now to oversee the rest of your father."

With this hurried phrase, an older woman at the far end of the table darted from her seat. The drooping hem of her sleeve snagged in the corner of the chair. She tugged it free with a toss of her head, streaks of hasty curls escaping from their knot. It was Eloen's mother.

Pelior rose hurriedly. "No, my lady, I can go."

He felt the smart of a kick from under the table. Wendy looked up at him, her eyes beseeching. The small shake of her head compelled the ellon to sit down again.

They watched the mother of the family disappear from the room. Pelior had long since formed the regrettable conclusion that she was frightened of him. She was a waif-like woman, with drawn features and a sharp, thin presence, who complained often of the mysterious fraying of her nerves. Pelior met Eloen's bright cool gaze, and wondered how she had come to be so painfully separate to the rest of her family.

Eloen had misread his searching look. "Forgive my mother," she murmured quickly, "she has a rather… absent mind."

Wendy looked up from her plate with a flash of bitter eyes. "'Tis a gracious way to put it, Eloen."

"Hush," the sister replied quietly, "and finish your bread."

"But I _hate_ the crusts."

Eloen turned to Pelior, an eyebrow arched. "Do you have a sibling? Let me guess, a brother?"

When Pelior did not reply, she leaned forward reflectively. "A troublesome younger brother, I fancy."

"Nay, Eloen," he laughed, "troublesome, yes, but she is an elleth."

"An elleth?" a glint of curiosity kindled in her eyes. "Tell me, what is she like? Wendy – clear the dishes."

With a groan Wendy slid off her seat, pushed her sleeves up her elbows, and flickered little inquisitive glances towards Pelior as she stacked up the plates. But the ellon no longer payed any heed.

In his mind he saw the slight, ginger-haired elfling he had left to shades of Greenwood. But, he reasoned, she would be an elfling no longer – with a strange sad jolt Pelior realised that he had failed to picture his own sister's appearance. Out of nowhere, he wondered whether the freckles over her nose had ever faded.

"You ask of my sister? Well, she was named Eroth."

The shadows of candlelight shifted and crept towards him across the tablecloth. Pelior let out a breath, and started again.

"She is like, like – a moorland, you see. All wilderness and brooding. In her younger days, father would often try to tame her temperament somehow, for her mind works only in flairs and flashes, wanting of some little mildness. And her nature is so…" Pelior felt himself smile, "…so difficult. Endearingly difficult. You'd feel as if you understand her, and then one day she does something kind or reckless or downright troublesome, and you find that there is yet another little secret about her yet to be untangled."

The ellon paused. Across the table, Eloen leaned her chin upon her palm, watching him. "Wendy will like her, I think," Pelior said, "She's the same look of mischief in her eyes. I – I wonder how she is now.

"You do not see her often?"

"I am a traveller, Eloen. The land calls to me constantly. The only way I can learn of her is through letters – and she'd stopped writing to me, some time ago. I think that she resents me for always – always leaving."

He looked up. Eloen met his gaze and smiled slowly; a small, sad smile. In it was an unspoken murmur.

 _And you will leave us too?_

* * *

She started awake when the woman touched her.

Icy fingers snatched at Gwen's wrist, but colder still was the look in her eyes, wild and feral in the bitter evening dark.

The woman had found her there, amongst the frost and the barren stone of the ruins by the river. The elleth was leaning back upon a fallen wall, a crumpled figure upon crumbling stone. And she had been sleeping. Gwen had bent down, and gently reached for her cheek…

Eroth scrambled back over the debris, her lips drawn over her teeth, tumbling stones from their heights, clattering in the darkness – and then that fleeting look, the suffocating fear, was gone.

"Eroth!" Gwen cried, shaking her head, "what ails you?"

She tried not to think of the blackness of the elleth's eyes, tried not to search for the same monstrous terror in the gaze which watched her now. Eroth was struggling to stand, rapid breaths hissing through her lips.

"I am sorry, Gwen," she whispered. Her eyes were fixed upon her with searing intensity. "It was a terrible dream. I –"

She stopped and clung to the wall with searching fingers. Gwen wrung her hands; there was no soothing a girl in such a state. "Eroth," she tried gently, "sit – let's sit for a while."

Abruptly, the elleth sank down onto a slab of stone. Gwen followed her, and seated herself cautiously by her side. The stone was jagged and cold. Before them stretched the pitiful slopes of the ruins, shapes threaded with the pale hum of distant water. The darkening sky bore down upon them.

Between them there was only breathing. And then her voice sounded out, low and halting as the beat of a moth's wing. "I dreamed of my home."

"Greenwood?" Gwen asked.

"Ay." Another silence – a brittle silence – fragile as a sigh. "I was there, and I saw – there was darkness in the trees, one that I've never known before. And the _noise_ , Gwen – the forest can scream, you see. And it was _screaming_. The wind was unbearable. Wind, and terrible darkness."

Eroth's sought her gaze, pleading for some sign of understanding. The burden she saw there was too hefty an artefact to possess solely for oneself. But Gwen was unable to share her troubles; none but their bearer could.

"I suppose it all sounds very silly, and inconsequential, to you, Gwen," the elleth murmured. "'Twas simply a dream, after all."

"Eroth, 'tis not hard for me to imagine the desolation of my home."

"Oh – " she turned to her, "I am sorry. Forgive me, Gwen. It _was_ only a dream."

Eroth stretched out her hands, as if to offer comfort, before she laid them down again and twined them tightly across her lap. Gwen noticed that her fingers were long and slender, made for weaving music, sketching idle fancies under forest sunlight; not for drawing bowstrings or wielding daggers.

"It is no matter," the woman replied. The fire, the blackness, the _screams_ – they were banished. Dragon fire belonged to the distant lands of the past; another world. She had strength enough to be rid of such hauntings.

"I am fool," Eroth continued lowly. "To talk of desolation while we sit in the very ruins of your town."

"Eroth," Gwen murmured. "Was that all you dreamed of? Your homeland?"

"What do you mean? What else could there be?"

"What else do you fear, my lady?"

The elleth looked at her sharply. Her eyes were hard. "Nought but what I should, and have good reason for doing so."

"Dark pathways, perhaps."

She knew what the words implied. Gwen shook her head, rising, and dark eyes bore into her back.

The elleth had built up a fortress with an iron will – a triumph and a cage. She forged her own prison mesh by mesh, stone by stone, and clung to it with careful tenacity. Since their first meeting there had been a storm in her eyes. She would have to wage it alone.

"It is late, my lady," Eroth said softy, "let us return."

She picked her path down the other face of the ruins, where a perilous precipice and crumbling rock prevented the woman from following.

 _Such control._ Eroth truly believed that she possessed mastery over her fate. But even the poorest sailors knew that heavy ships still sunk in the storms of the sea.

* * *

Eroth stepped out onto the streets, indifferent to the cruel rush of the wind. The banners of the Wood-elves rose high in the darkness, looming ever taller as she neared the tents. The elleth remembered a tale, one of those childhood fables. It was about a fox. A fox that feared nothing but shadows, and ran from them blindly, unheeding that they seemed to be its own.

 _A silly story._ Akin to tales of pathways, or of trusting in foolish infatuations. Eroth hurried towards the tents, and the din of the river flowed into the sounds of wind through the banners. _She had seen her father's grief. She would never forget._

Such was where dark paths led its wanderers.

Numbly, her feet took her back to the glade. She needed rest, alone with her books and her candle – her most trustworthy companions – with a flickering flame to distract her from the tedium of the hours. The shadows hummed, stirring and gloating at her in the blue-black darkness. She strode hastily towards her tent.

And then Eroth staggered back; some form had collided into her, emerging from the jaws of one of the shelters. A steadying hand skimmed her arm. From the darkness blue eyes shivered, then held hers.

"'Tis a fine way to greet a friend," their owner muttered.

With a cry, she pushed herself away. Her next reaction was regret, a deep sharp pang. But the hurt on his features, a fleeting, darkened glance, was gone and discarded in an instant. Legolas moved forwards in the dimness, drawing back his hood, and then paused.

In the darkness slender fingers touched the skin of her cheek, brushed her lips. He tilted his head, studying the cut curiously. "Your lips are bleeding," he said.

And suddenly Eroth was numb no more.

Wordlessly, her fingers closed around his wrist and she twisted his arm swiftly behind his back. Breathing hard, she was thrilled with a strange sensation. She pressed a hand upon his back, forcing him down, relishing in the bite of bitter anger. Legolas gave a sharp intake of breath. In surprise, perhaps, or in pain. Eroth eased her grip hastily.

"What was that for?" he hissed.

For guiding her, ever gentle and patient, through the frustrations of archery. For singing her to sleep to chase the nightmares away. For games of riddles at ungodly hours. Or, perhaps, for possessing the most cruelly beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

"For being on my path," Eroth replied.

* * *

 _Author's Note：_

 _ **Aralinn** : thank you! This means a lot. I am certainly getting some power couple vibes from them. But because our elves here are both stubborn and excessively cautious, you can expect a few ups and downs before they finally acknowledge it :p_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : I must say, I feel spoilt by all these reviews! I agree - Gwen is a bit like the motherly figure Eroth had never known, and she certainly has grown to care for her. As for Pelior's side of the story - you can tell how much he had grown to be accepted within the family (but will it last? Will he do what he always does, and escape from the things precious to him?)_ _I was so excited to show you their fight scene - I'm glad you enjoyed it! And jealous Legolas was quite something, wasn't he? Moving on, gosh I loved your opinion on Arphen - you could say that she is the opposite of Eroth. There is certainly some tension between her and Legolas now, which is foreign to them both, so we'll need to see how things unfold ;)_


	33. Farewells

**Chapter 33 – Farewells**

"I think you'll like dinner," Eloen said. The woman was kneeling beside a fallen tree, sifting through the herbs laid out upon dying bark.

"I thought Wendy was cooking?"

She looked back at him archly, "I am moved by your faith in my sister's skill."

The long shadows of birches streaked the forest ground. Pelior knelt down beside her and helped her gather the herbs into her pouch. It had proven a weary evening; the herbs were scarce after a dearth of rain, and it seemed that the sun was already falling faster than before over the deepening horizon. Summer was coming to an end.

Pelior reached out absently to displace a curl of hair upon Eloen's brow. In a flash, her eyes sought his, and it was too late to mend his mistake.

Quickly he withdrew his hand, brushing his fingers down his tunic, as if to dispel the lingering _intimacy_ of the action. Pelior was not one prone to affectionate gestures; whatever sentiment had possessed him then, he could not bear to nurture it.

They arrived at the edge of the trees. Through the grey branches the village lay, sunken into the ground like a child at rest, a hazy cluster of huts alone under the dusk sky. From its depths came the sound of sawing, a jagged sound, stuttering its notes into the heavy air.

"You know," Eloen spoke by his side, "I've stood here before, and wondered – whether I _need_ to go back. Sometimes I feel almost as if I could just turn and _leave_ this place."

She tore her eyes from the sight and laughed, a cool, stiff sound, discordant in the summer air. "I sound like Helge."

"Who is Helge?"

"Oh, the village pariah. He's always talking about some land or another that he'll only ever see in his dreams." Eloen started down the path, and her next words were strewn nonchalantly behind her. "He wants to run away. I don't blame him."

They passed a huddle of vegetable plots, behind which a table had been set up, half concealed in a slew of tangled yellow stalks. They passed a young man working at the bench, sawing morosely at a long piece of wood, copper hair falling across his eyes.

"This is him." Eloen nodded towards him. "Hair like yours."

At this Helge looked up briefly, sawdust fluttering down around him in a flurry of sweet dust. He caught sight of Eloen and waved with wild fervour. The gesture was returned by a cool inclination of her head.

Helge, however, seemed unperturbed. For a moment he made as to leave the workbench and approach her. Then, his joyous expression faded.

The youth was staring at Pelior with utter awe in his eyes. Evidently he felt no inclination to reach for the pitchfork, although the wood-saw suspended tightly within his hand still bode ill for one who seemed in such utter consternation. The elf stared back warily.

Then, in a flash, the young man abandoned his station and disappeared behind the line of huts. The stalks were left swaying in the breeze, abandoned by their raucous companion.

"I am sorry," Eloen said. "He's probably announcing your presence to all who do not already know."

"'Tis no matter. I will be gone ere long."

The words shattered the fragile air. She whirled around. Pelior looked down at her upturned face, so sharp and bold and searching, and took a single step backwards. There was something unreadable in her eyes, which faded as soon as she met his gaze, dying like the evening light.

"So, you are leaving," she demanded slowly. "When?"

"I – in two days," he forced out.

"Two days." The look in her eyes was unbearable.

"Indeed." Pelior glanced away. "This last batch of herbs is just a precaution. Your father should recover in time."

She turned away, indifference and bitterness battling upon the expressive slope of her shoulders. "Well, I suppose you will be glad."

"Are _you_ glad that I will be gone?"

Neither query received an answer that day.

* * *

Ehlark had never been sure of how Elves slept, nor had he chanced to wonder, so when he found the elleth in apparent slumber upon the bakery's kitchen table he was rendered somewhat at a loss. He had not expected for Elves to sleep in so… sprawling a manner, nor for them to be in a state of such perpetual tension.

Eroth was half-seated upon the stool at the corner of the room, her torso prostrate upon the Eppings' pale blue tablecloth, her remarkable hair spiralling out in copper tendrils across its surface. Her cheek and brow was buried against her arm, and Ehlark's incredulous glance followed the sleeve of her shirt to the arrangement of her fingers, vice-like, upon the edge of the table. Nevertheless the elleth seemed to be in undisturbed, blissful slumber, oblivious to drunken caterwauling of the man passing under their window.

The young man supposed that he had to wake her. Nym had presently, with much whining and sad little glances, been put to bed by her mother. There must be an anxious mother awaiting Eroth's return too, Ehlark concluded, it having occurred to him that _Elves_ must have parents too.

He tried for gingerly touching the elleth's arm.

In an instant those fingers, which had so tenaciously gripped the kitchen table before, now extended their vice-like influence to his unfortunate forearm. A smudge of dark wide eyes turned to him in the dimness.

" _Lle holma ve' edan,_ " she said. _(you smell like a human)_

"I am sorry?" Ehlark tried to tug his arm free, to no avail.

A glimmer of humour reached her gaze. There was a suspicious, secret quirk to her lips when she replied, "do pardon me. I was merely apologising for my hold on your arm."

With that, she released her fingers. It left the young man rubbing the skin there in effort to ease a developing ache. He wondered if it would leave a bruise in addition to that inflicted upon his dignity. "Never mind, you have caused no harm."

"Haven't I?" she mused. "I must be out of practise."

Her eyes wandered to the darkness beyond the kitchen windows. "I see that I must plead your pardon again. I have intruded upon your household at no early hour."

"We've put Nym to bed," replied Ehlark numbly.

"Then I must surely leave; yet, not before we have a talk."

"Now? What indeed about?"

He moved around the table and rekindled the candles, taking hesitant seat opposite the elleth. She shook copper locks from her eyes, rested her chin upon her hands, and said, "I've learnt very much at the bakery, my child."

"Why do you call me child?"

A smile passed over her features. "Well, I am much older than you in years."

Ehlark was indignant. "I am one and twenty."

"Guess my age." Her grey eyes were childlike in their mischief. _She could not be very old._

"They say that Elves bear their years differently to us. You are – " he looked at her, at the fine dusting of freckles across her nose, her delicate jaw and dimpled cheek, then at the depthless grey of her eyes, which still danced with some secret amusement. "Perhaps, I would say, that you are eighty years of age."

It was a wild guess, and the response was a small, stifled laugh. "I am afraid, my dear child, that you have not quite chanced upon the right century."

He stumbled over his words, clumsy with the revelation. "You are very old, then."

"Oh Ehlark," gone was the youthful glance, replaced by a fleeting look of wisdom, and light, that rendered the young man breathless. "I am not old. I am _ancient_."

She stretched out a hand to him, her fingers pale and delicate upon the tablecloth. Never before had she seemed so much to be from another world. "But do not startle so. It is _different_ , somehow. I am not as a mortal who lives a thousand years – to make the crude comparison."

When he still stared, her smile fell a little. "We may be friends, may we not?"

The question held such frank simplicity, that Ehlark reached across the table without further deliberation; man and elf shook hands quietly. "Of course, Eroth."

"Even when we part?"

"Yes," he said sadly, "even then, my friend."

"I was thinking," Eroth smirked, "that it may be a blessing in disguise."

"How so?"

"I hear your leader's holding a town dance for the departing company. If I were a girl by the name of Harper, I would not hesitate to attend."

"Oh, _Eroth_."

"Come, look not so solemn. Those green eyes are sorely missed, I see. I've got something for Nym." Reaching into her cloak, she set a large glass jar upon the table. "Without this Epping's Bakery would never have been known to me. Strange fate."

Ehlark traced a finger along the lid. In the sandy bottom of the jar scuttled two small, speckled dark crabs. The very species which Nym had been hunting for that day by the river; the very temptation which had lured her too close to the water.

A smile broke across Eroth's features. "Ambrose helped me catch them. They're very handsome, are they not?" She slid the jar towards him. "You know, I hope that Ambrose Tomson will get his sweet-shop back."

"Someday, Eroth. Someday."

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : you're onto something! I'll have to start preparing more surprises - you know me too well. As for Eroth and Legolas, they'e gone and got themselves in a awful tangle, haven't they? Especially Eroth, who's hovering in that grey area between realising her feelings and acknowledging them, and the frustration is really affecting her. Thank you mellon! _

_**Alex-Is-A-Geek** : wow, thank you! This is usually the type of review I've written for stories I've looked up to in the past, so that was a great compliment :p _


	34. Of Falling and Dancing

**Chapter 34 – Of Falling and Dancing**

"This is for Pickle and Tater."

Small hands were tugging through her hair, clumsy and tentative. Nym had climbed up onto the back of her coach, her feet kicking at the cushions, and launched an impressive endeavour in braiding Eroth's hair. Feathers of dust flew from the cushions, under the mercy of Nym's dangling feet, and spun into powdered shapes in the hazy evening light.

"Pickle and Tater? The crabs?" Eroth glanced over at the glass jar on the window sill. Sheltered by tendrils of ivy, two little creatures shifted along the sand. Even they were lethargic.

Nym hummed absently, still working assiduously through her hair. A small braid was forming; she tried to ignore the loose strand tickling her nose, and said, "it's very pretty, Nym. You'll be a master hairdresser when you grow up."

Her voice was wistful. "I'll never be as good as mamma."

As if by some motherly instinct, Gwen swept into the room, brusque as an autumn morning. Eroth twisted around and cupped her hands around the girl's ear. "You already are."

Then, the elleth was dragged rather unceremoniously to a chair, whereupon Gwen nimbly loosened the snarls in her hair, and began to comb it into a new plait.

"I liked the old one," Eroth murmured.

"Nonsense," came the reply, punctuated by two firm tugs of the brush. "I wouldn't have you going to the town dance looking like a beautiful scarecrow."

Despite her elven good sense, Eroth sniggered. "My dear Gwen, I am neither."

Whatever enchantment the woman was inflicting upon her hair, it felt encouragingly pleasant. Eroth was forced to suspend her incredulity as able hands combed and twisted, and resigned herself to watching dust motes, flickering golden, rise and fall into dimness. Balin, the white cat, stirred beside the fire.

"It's finished." The hands fell from her hair, rifled through some sort of pouch, and then produced a mirror. "Here, have a look."

Eroth studied her reflection. "It matches Legolas' braids."

She winced immediately in regret and sank her teeth into her lip, painfully. Legolas. She had refused to meet his searching glance when they crossed paths at the tents. They had not shared in a discourse since that night. The night he told her of wild sparrows and the coming of winter; the night the shadows of the tent stifled the last of her confused hopes.

"Nay, silly," replied Gwen, oblivious, "your braids gather at the temple, while his joins at the back of his head."

The woman winked. "But you are a good match."

"Gwen!"

"I never said anything, my lady."

She brought Eroth to the upstairs bedroom, the one belonging to husband and wife, where a pale shimmering material had been laid upon the covers of the bed. Eroth raised her eyebrows.

"This is of no ordinary make."

Gwen lifted the dress from its cradle of blankets, the cloth slipping over her arms like water. "I was a lord's daughter, before I married Hendrick. Born to a life of wine and dancing."

"And you despised it?"

"Naturally." She passed the dress to Eroth. "I want you to try it."

"Alright, Gwendoline."

"Don't be sly."

Eroth smiled. "I thank you for the garment, m'lady."

"Don't be snobbish either. I'll leave you to change."

By the end the elleth was nearly certain that there was but one clasp behind the neck, and that had she not been playing the strings like a harp it really was quite simple. When the enigmatic complexities of the back of the dress had finally been untangled and arranged, Eroth called for the woman to enter.

The garment was one of deep dyed silk, loose-fitting and easy-flowing. It had neither the suffocating grasp of a clenched waist nor the grandeur of velvet and embroidery. Eroth was becoming rather attached to it. There was a faint scent buried in its fabric, an old scent, which made her think of moths and powder.

Gwen studied her from the doorway. Her arms were crossed, her plain sleeves drawn pragmatically over her elbows – yet some evening in the past this woman must have danced and curtsied. She would have worn away the time in perfume and silken repartee, languid and resentful, waiting for her claim of freedom in the world beyond.

"Turn around, Eroth."

"Why?"

"Now you're stubborn. So I can see the back."

Eroth obeyed; the watercolour of a sailing boat on the opposite wall stared back at her.

The woman's remark was complacent. "I'd say you look adequately celestial. At least those elven shoes are impractical enough to match the dress."

Eroth shot her an affronted look. "Those shoes have brought me on journeys of a hundred leagues."

"Your equestrian steeds, you mean."

Only in gratitude for the evening's attire did the elleth neglect to mention that several weeks on horseback sincerely did not to any wonders to the regular backside. And with the looming threat of a return journey heavy upon her heart, she followed the Epping family down towards the distant music.

* * *

She was caught. Silk and flutter became a snare, and the fast, heady thrills of flute-song formed an ambush. The town dance was a river of riot and colour. How could she forget? She _hated_ dances.

She smoothed some wayward locks of hair over her brow, aching for something to hold, and glare into, and distract her from the mindless chaos of the present. Eroth was on the verge of placing the little faith she retained on mortal wine once more.

 _Banquet table. Edge of the hall._ The sheer distance was daunting, but with finesse she could circumnavigate all sentient distractions and material impediments. A merry tune was currently puppeteering the gathering's movements, teasing limbs to fly out, catching in tinted silk. It was thus that Eroth was subject to many dark glances, hostile and curious, ere she reached the long tables lining the wall.

Weary, she snatched up the nearest pitcher and poured out a generous portion of wine. Its dark smooth depths, rich as a midsummer night, offered a fine distraction. Eroth cradled it between her hands, the wrought surface chill against the burning of her skin, and hesitantly lifted it to her lips.

She settled for a grimace, "sweeter than a sycophant's tongue."

That was when she noticed a slight form perched upon a chair a few paces away. The same restless feet which had fretted the dusty cushions of the evening were now kicking against its wooden base. Nym broke from her idle reflection to look up at Eroth, and her eyes brightened. She too had found a distraction.

"Why aren't you dancing, Eroth?" She quirked her head to the side, and launched two more kicks at her seat.

The elleth set down the wine glass and sat down beside the girl. "Why should I be?"

Nym jerked her head to the side. She was glancing away, at the pale-haired ellon moving through the shadows, at his new partner flitting through lamplight to greet him. It seemed that Legolas was enjoying himself considerably more than her. "Why aren't you dancing with _him_?"

"I – I have no need to."

"Oh," Nym said softly. "I thought you liked to dance."

Eroth leaned over, and smoothed a hand lightly over the girl's dark hair. Her large eyes bore into her with all the innocence of a guileless childhood.

"I did. But I always stumbled, and I did not like that."

Nym bit her lip thoughtfully. "So you're afraid to fall."

"Yes," Eroth replied. Then, slowly, "yes, I guess I am."

"If you want to," the girl smiled, and small fingers tugged at her sleeve, "you can dance with _me_."

Eroth stooped and pressed a kiss to her hand with a gallant flourish.

"Why, it would be my pleasure, my lady."

* * *

She could not dispel the lingering sweetness of the wine. Flagrantly saccharine or not, Eroth had use her misery to excuse two more glasses of the sickly substance. She touched fingers to her cheek; it was undoubtedly flushed.

Someone passed, met her wanton glare, and shrank back into the crowds. The merriments were inexhaustible; the town's people were willing to dance as long as the music sounded. Eroth sank back against the wall, threw a sweeping glance across the hall, and stiffened.

She was a swirl of gentle curls and pale satin. The same girl who had flitted through lamplight, and the same who was now dancing by Legolas' side. _How long had they been partners?_ Surely half of the evening.

So, whilst Eroth was abusing her taste with sickly mortal wine and drowning in sombre reflections, her friend was drawing genuine delight with some town beauty at his arm. _Was he not the one who despised dancing as much as she? Did he not shirk such festivities at all opportunities and at all costs, just to breathe the night air again?_

Somehow, it stung like a betrayal. The pair spun around, and Eroth noticed that she had fair features, a glistening gaze, and an infuriating smile. The most infuriating; winsome and maddening _._ The elleth set the wine glass down, and grasped her forearm. She shook a strand of hair from her eyes.

The music changed, and twisted into a fall of low sweet harmonies. The young woman leaned closer – Eroth started from the wall – and tucked a sprig of flowers into Legolas' hair. _How dare she!_ Eroth fumed. _How much more was an unfortunate onlooker obligated to endure?_ The elleth moved into the crowds, closer to the unfolding scene. _What right did the girl presume she had?_

Someone toasted her, but her answering smile was as chilling as the lifted glass, and she was gone before its owner tasted the wine within.

Eroth halted a few paces away from the sprig of flowers twisted into pale hair, tucked one ankle over the other, and stared coolly at the dancing pair. The wielder of the infuriating smile was extending its influence as best she could, evidently triumphant. Her victory would not last long.

She stepped forward and swept between them, graceful as silk, and slid her hand across Legolas' shoulders. He looked at her searchingly, startled. Her touch migrated, seeking the vulnerable meeting of fabric and skin.

"Forgive me, my lady," Eroth said smoothly, casting such a glance towards his former partner that she shrank away, blushing. The elleth decided presently that flushed cheeks irked her, too. "I will claim his next dance."

"Of course," she murmured quickly, backing away, throwing one last look back at her friend. It lasted too long. Eroth made sure that before her gaze moved away, she had touched her fingers to Legolas' neck, and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.

When she pulled away, the woman was gone, and the flowers were dangling between Eroth's fingers.

Upon studying Legolas' demeanour, she amended her previous dictum, in concluding that some tints to the pale cheek became their owner. She looked down at the crushed petals within her palm. Daisies. How ironic. It only served to kindle her anger further. An insidious, unnamed intoxication, more potent than any mortal wine, found its way into her blood. It was reckless as a storm, ruthless as the flood.

"Either you have taken too much wine, which I doubt," Legolas said, and his eyes were dark and wide, "or the limits of courtesy are somewhat lost to you, _mellon_."

"Believe me, Thranduilion, courtesy is the last thing on my mind. Follow me."

Unease crossed his brow. The ellon allowed himself to be led through the crowds.

"Has there been a turn of events? Is this urgent?"

 _Always the first to think of duty. How typical of Thranduilion._ Too preoccupied with blades and arrows and maps to spare his senses for other ellyth's fairness, so lost in the whispers of the trees and the songs of the rivers that tender words fell deaf to his ears.

It was amusement to watch him – indifferent to those soft sweet glances, the only form of enticement he acknowledged being the prospect of slipping into the night. And they did. Laughing, escaping into starlight, Eroth would become his sole companion for the rest of the evening. They used to mock the formalities of those artificial dances, feet steeped in the icy river, cradling their heads upon the silken moss.

But that was before. Now they were no longer in the forest and Legolas still worried for the town upon the lake, and Eroth wanted him to notice, for one night, that which he was blind to.

"This concerns none but us." She turned to face him. The image of the daisies still burned in her mind. "And it _is_ urgent."

* * *

They were finally away from the roil of dancing masses. The town hall was reduced to a shadow in the near distance, a ghost to the life of the river, its music drowned within its rushes. A sliver of moonlight tinted dark lashes golden, shivering within his eyes.

Eroth was reverent, revelling in the unknown longing which unfurled, so ageless that it must have waited since some ancient time, like the spark of a flame beneath grey embers. She had first felt it upon the prairies, somewhere in the hollow beneath her throat, and like wildfire it consumed her then, as it did now. She had tired of being cautious, of fearing its peril.

A smirk touched her lips. "Dance with me Legolas."

"Very well."

A thin wind stirred, then fell silent. Legolas stepped back, inclining his head, and something dark and wild passed quickly behind his gaze. As if he too realised that they were nearing an unknown precipice.

Foregoing decorum he touched her cheek, the action feather-light and familiar, cool as the brush of pine leaves upon the skin.

In her mind, near the teetering edge, they looked upon the crashing black of the seas below, lingering on the time worn path of fear and distrust. Wary.

Legolas placed his hand upon her shoulder. The same hands had once tugged her over rocky levees, tugged her into cold gentle rivers, parried her clumsy, beginner's blows and twisted idle braids from her unruly hair. Those hands now held her, in the town by the river, so careful and graceful and cautious.

As was Greenwood's custom, Eroth slid her arm loosely around his neck. A thrill of something – wonder, perhaps – rushed through her blood. This time, she allowed her fear to reign superior. This time she would bask in the moonlight and the taste of terror associated only with falling, which the leaves of autumn must have felt, spiralling slowly, inevitably towards the soil. The dizzying precipice; they were at the cliff's edge.

The faint tune of mortal music sufficed to guide them. Under the high clear sky they danced, free in the empty street, their steps disturbing the cobbled path. It was the dance of the Wood-elves, the creation of the folk long under tree, echoing out in a street of stone, as reckless and graceful as ever it was danced in the shades and scents of a forest. For one instant, the elleth forgot all about the falling and thought only of the world stirring beneath them and the kiss of moonlight upon her skin.

It appeared that Legolas danced well; worthy of the praise of the ellyth of his realm.

"Mellon nin," he was saying, "I believe you told me that your dancing was almost as hopeless as your sewing."

It was the time that the elleth had first beaten him with a blade. Sullen, and nursing a bruise she may or may not have inflicted with the hilt of a sword, Legolas had pointed out that she seemed to lack no grace in wielding a weapon. Sheathing her blade merrily, she had replied that at least parries need not be performed to the tune of a harp.

Eroth quirked an eyebrow. "I did?"

He slid fingers to her waist. "You described the art as trying to climb a birch in a snow-storm. Now you have mastered the former, 'tis time you attempted the latter."

"Was that a challenge or a compliment?"

"The matter depends on which you accept."

And, suddenly, all that she could hear was the sound of their breathing. Somewhere faraway and inconsequential the flute-song had stopped, and so too their dance faded into stillness, lending its movement to the shifting of the wind.

His hands fell away. Eroth waited, solemn and still, for him to look away, to step back, to do something to stem the ache in her chest. Instead he watched her, eyes finding her features as if he had never seen them before, and it was all too bewildering in the dark.

Gently, she felt Legolas brush a strand of hair behind her ear. It was as if he looked upon an enigma. Eroth returned his stare, unflinching. She needed to savour this, savour the ghost of his touch and the warmth in his eyes.

For the elleth knew, as much as she was willing to forget in late nights and hazy dusks, that when the Prince's betrothal neared the realm came alight with celebration, her heart would lie in Greenwood no more.

Her anchor lost, she was born to wander. It was not mere childish jealousy that Eroth held for the unknown bride. Oh, it was far, far more than that.

The creak of a door caused Legolas to stumble back, drawing his fingers from her cheek. The occupant of the nearby house stepped out with a broom, unheeding of the figures by the river, and commenced to clean a dust ridden doorstep with brittle strokes. The scraping of the broom startled Legolas further from his strange rapture, and he watched her now with narrowed eyes, torn between wariness and wonder.

In the precipice of Eroth's mind, she heard the fierce crashing of the black waves below, felt the ache of its siren beckoning. But she would not drown.

He was never hers. He never would be.

Mockingly, she curtsied low. "I thank you for the dance, my lord."

Eroth supposed it was her way of saying farewell.


	35. Flame

**Chapter 35 – Flame**

 _Wariness or wonder?_

 _He had never been easy to read. It was maddening in the days of their childhood; his worst weapon. Sometimes he would stop smiling, stop looking, and then some pretentious title would fall from his lips and he_ would _smile – only it would be his father's, the courteous tilting of the lips, cold and thin and so absolutely infuriating._

 _But that was when he had been angry; now it was dark by the river and Legolas seemed only puzzled, yet it was still enough for the meaning to drain from his eyes, and Eroth was no fool._

 _She could no longer read him. The language of his mind was a litany of separate conundrums. The faltering of his fingers as he cupped her jaw; it became an enigma. The sadness in his eyes when he moved closer, consuming the cruel space between their lips; it was a riddle._

 _And now his touch was upon her cheek, cold and gentle and hungrily curious, exploring the hollow under her eyes and the tilt of her brow – and Eroth cared no longer for languages or riddles. But there was one more matter she needed to solve._

 _She chased that last thought with the touch of her lips to his._

The elleth awoke in the cold.

It was night, she realised, and the wind was silent. In the dimness she grasped for her blankets and threw them from her skin. Her feet met the ground. A stumble, the scratch of a flint, and a flame erupting from the shadows. Eroth leaned against the table, blinking against the firelight, and the dream came crashing down upon her.

The elleth was furious. His touch still echoed upon her skin."No," she said, "Oh, no. No. _No."_

* * *

The time had come. Pelior was leaving - and this time he would summon the will to do it.

Wendy bid him farewell from the doorway, her face streaked with shadow from the harsh noon light. Her mother stood behind her, silent, but the ellon thought he saw a faint smile pass over her lips. He hoped it was one of well-wishing.

Eloen was gone; perhaps it was for the best. He did not know if he had courage enough to make their encounter his last.

Sighing he bent down and touched his lips to Wendy's forehead. "Farewell. I owe you my gratitude for leading me here; you have been a good host."

He straightened, and smiled. "However, the cooking needs a little more work."

The girl did not reply. She was refusing to meet his gaze, gnawing upon her lip, her feet scuffing the front steps. He looked helplessly down at the top of her head. Something pressed heavy upon his chest; _was it guilt?_

Pelior stepped back from the shadows of the doorway, into sickly noon sunlight. "Goodbye."

 _He must be going_. He watched, transfixed, as Wendy's mother leaned over, drawing her away from sight, and pulled the curtain shut. It was heavy cloth, sun-baked and frayed, the hem worn and speckled with dust. From beneath it shadows flickered, amber and dusky in the sunlight. They were gone.

The traveller turned from the house. For the last time he disappeared down the winding dirt path, past a sleepy barn, past the sound of sawing, and away to the road that ever beckoned.

Pelior ran a hand along the horse's mane, spurring them faster. The clatter of hooves sounded out loudly, hastily into the surrounding birches. The thrill of it was familiar; another path, another patch of turf or borrowed bed upon which to lay his head, and none of them _home_. This terrible, insurmountable loneliness, like sleep to the weary, was nothing like he had ever known before.

His hands faltered when a shadow flitted from the birches. The path stretched before him, devastating and inevitable. For a moment he saw the days ahead, saw the nights alone under empty skies, saw all the places he would go and the people he would meet. And he saw that none of them could make him forget the little village among the birches.

And then the path was empty no more. Uttering a cry of warning he brought his steed to a halt.

His breath left his throat. "Eloen?"

"Eloen," Pelior repeated more firmly, "go home."

Eloen tilted her head, her eyes hard. They were as bright as he remembered, alight now with a strange flame, and the ellon was frightened by the meaning they held.

He knew not how she was suddenly before him, snatching up his reigns, and staring up at him with the look he found evoked such wonderful force.

"Home," she sighed. "I wish you knew, Pelior, what that truly means."

"What do you want?" he said lowly. He was startled by the harshness in his voice.

Eloen stepped back, her hand falling from the reigns. Pelior was able to leave, if he desired it. The path lay before them. A spur of the heels and the rush of wind enough to make him forget. He was offered it freely, and he did not move.

"I know you," the woman said. She stood straight and stiff, her arms clasped tight together, her face tilted to the noon light. "Even if you don't think that I can. And I will show you, if you take me with you."

" _Eloen_ ," he was surprised by the way her name fell from his lips. "I – farewell."

"Don't you understand?" her glance came like the lash of a whip. "I want to see the world as you have seen it."

She moved to the centre of the path. "I'm sick of this land, sick of the rain and working and sleeping. I'm sick of the pigs and the stupid goat milk that everyone drinks around here like fine wine. I _want_ to leave, so much – if only for a while."

Suddenly, Pelior remembered a starry evening a fortnight ago. The swirl of skirts down the staircase, the sharp searching glance and a reproachful voice, _why is he here, Winnifred?_ Something fell upon his heart like a stone to water, and stayed there.

He looked at the woman before him and stretched out his hand.

* * *

Many, many days later, a grey horse and its riders would pass through the valley of harp-song and falling water. There would be a flash of warm bright eyes and a wondering smile; _Helge would be green with jealousy._ And then, as the cacophony of hooves flooded onto the twisting walkway, the wind would bear again their drifting voices.

 _Eloen, we should not be doing this._

 _How, again, do you pronounce 'shut up' in Elvish?_

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _And thus ends the story of Pelior and Eloen! What do you make of them? Recently I've made some upheavals in the plot of Deluge, and I've decided to give them a happy (or as happy as can be) ending after all. I've also shortened the story considerably, so the ending will actually be coming soon - I still can't quite believe it._

 _ **Aralinn** : thank you for your frustration :p I would love to explore Legolas' viewpoint more, so watch out for something of that in later chapters! _


	36. Blade

**Chapter 36 – Blade**

Her fingers skimmed cold metal. Eroth caught the dagger, heart in her throat, her hands tight upon the handle. Savage delight. She brought up her hand, searching for marred skin, and found none. Another triumph; she took her stance, sucked in a breath, and repeated the throw.

A nick of ice. Eroth turned the dagger to the light. A thin line of dark clung to the edge. Fumbling, she set down the weapon and drew back her sleeve, frowning down at the cut. It was only a shallow scratch; she ran a finger along it, felt no more than a sting.

 _It was no use_ ; her thoughts wreaked havoc upon her focus. The fancies of dreams stole upon her, cloaked in half-truth, and she feared them. Strange that a mere elf could bring this upon her. Who was _she_ , to be brought to her knees by a sentiment, to be forced to relinquish her hold over her own heart? Eroth was not one to make sacrifices, and she had enough sense yet to steer her own fate.

And yet – she wished that she had never known the King's son, never let monstrous longings creep beneath her skin. She wished she had met someone more ordinary, less lethal, and accepted a quiet life away from trouble; that her path promised less storm and shadow.

On resting days in Greenwood, there hung a string of flets drifting in tangled ivy, where the idle ellyth gathered with hairbrushes and whispered words and smiles quiet as the woodland sunlight. But Eroth would not belong with them – she knew not exactly why. Like a crow among doves, she would seem.

Upon the mattress, the dagger flashed cold in the firelight. It was enough that her dreams taunted her folly, and now even her weapons gleamed in mockery. A hiss of frustration escaped her throat, and Eroth snatched it up, flinging it across the tent. Its point bit into the wooden table.

Maddened further, she stalked over, and hesitated. Pinned beneath the blade was a fold of paper which she tore from the table and ventured to study. It was Arphen's letter. The black ink smelt of whispers and woodland sunlight. Impulse spurred her to fling it out, but something gave her pause.

She moved wearily closer to the candlelight, and began reading.

* * *

His daughter was stalking across his room, her fists clenched.

Balthoron grasped her by the elbow and turned her firmly to face him. Her eyes flashed in the dark room, cold as morning light.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Because I deemed it sensible – "

" _Sensible?_ " she shook her arm from his grasp.

Balthoron bent down, holding his gaze level with hers. He knew this moment would come, had known since Arphen's letter reached his hands and the black Greenwood ink marked out triumphs in the candlelight. The King was committed to the betrothal, she wrote, and some other sentimental nonsense besides that Balthoron bothered not to read. The only matter of importance was Eroth's future, alight before his eyes then to a brilliance only his daughter deserved.

"Out of _consideration_ , I hoped that the arrangement would be better received if told from a friend."

She laughed, her eyes hard and furious. "You call my _betrothal_ to Legolas an arrangement?"

He spread his hands in a placating gesture. Eroth stopped, her breathing harsh in the stillness. Such a response was not what he had hoped; but it would not take long for her to see.

"You must recognise the advantages of your betrothal, _lellig_ ," he murmured, his hands coming to rest upon her shoulders. He had intended for gentleness, but in his conviction they pressed down upon her, and he saw her flinch. "It is wholly for your benefit. Do you not see?"

Eroth did not reply; dark eyes bore into him, disbelieving. Balthoron drew back in resignation, his hands spread before empty air. The candle flickered angrily between them. The first advisor had come to the agreement with the King in light of his daughter's best interests. Happiness and love were fickle, but power would secure her future.

Someday, she would come to know that it was all for the best.

Balthoron let her leave. Through the cloth of the tent her shadow lingered before the path, shifted, then faded into dimness. A wind breathed upon the opening, the shivering of cloth like settling wings, and the father wished his daughter freedom for the future fit for the birds of the forest.

His hands shook; were they hands that had forbidden her flight?

* * *

When Legolas was an elfling, he loved high places. The Elvenking would stand silent beneath, hiding his clenched fists, watching him tumble upwards towards deeper canopies, up until open sky. He would listen for the hiss of branches, impatient, waiting for another flash of pale hair and small feet skimming the leaves.

Perhaps there would always be places where a father couldn't follow. Thranduil lifted his eyes to the crown upon the table; touched with heavy fingers the slant where lithe wood met black shadow. Perhaps there, too, were things that a king could not command.

The thought brought him springing to his feet, and with the feverish scrape of velvet robes he paced the room, lengthwise and then back again. The betrothal was rightful, inevitable as the scrambling of small feet all those years ago, returning down from reckless heights. The open sky was a caprice, a fleeting dream, a child's fancy. A Prince had duties.

 _But could a King command his heart?_

Thranduil did not know. But age had not yet coloured him a fool – there was to be no way to make his son stop loving Eroth.

It was unclear just how much stubborn denial was required for Legolas to remain oblivious to the fact.

In the softness of his eyes, in the tilt of his smile when he was with her, Thranduil knew. He had known since one windblown evening, with the light dying and the sound of falling laugher, and when Legolas leaned to press a parting kiss upon her nose, her smirk faltering, her farewell still upon her lips. Constellations did not pass between the eyes of friends. There was brightness upon his face then, the kind that rivalled morning light upon the sea.

Legolas was hers the moment she asked. The Elvenking had accepted this first with shuttered disapproval, then fatherly bewilderment, and then by some inescapable caprice of fate he had determined the Prince's betrothal to Eroth of Lorien ten winters later, and his nervous fingers clenched upon themselves traitorously at his sides.

* * *

 _She hated the river,_ Eroth decided. Hated it for the dawn it wound from, for the lands to which it rushed. Hated it for its folding currents, silken and reckless, the colour of wine under the grey sky, intoxicated by its own freedom. She hated it for the sake of envy.

Dusk unfurled upon the edge of the town, and northward winds carried the smell of storm-clouds. There would be rain in the ruins. The elleth took her stance, tried to look only at the light upon her daggers, and fought against nothing but the tides of fear in the fraying of her heart.

Yet the arc of her blade scratched out patterns of longing, and love in futility. The white glint of metal whispered of shattering, shattering alone even as they shared everything else; for he could take her whole being, and Eroth had no right to ask for the same. She would have him as the tangle of kindred words, as sweet grass under swift feet and turning pages in late nights – but she would not have the part of him he could not give.

When the rain came she felt for her heartbeat beneath her chest. It was with surprise that she felt no falter to its rhythm to match the unravelling there.

She bent her head, clenched the daggers tighter between her fingers, raw skin against cold wood.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _So, we fanfictioners have come our merry way through the tortuous paths of a friendship-that-is-not-quite-a-friendship, and then BAM, here comes a ten foot drop in the form of a long due revelation. Will this change everything?_

 _ **WickedGreene13** : hmm... I believe I would agree. Let us hope that it will come true someday ;)_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : hey! Trust me, you're not the only one rooting for Pelior and Eloen (I do ship my own characters) :p In the end I guess I grew too attached to leave Eloen behind, so here she is, fated to travel the lands after all! I'm glad you liked the older side of Eroth - because Elves are fundamentally complex creatures beyond mortal comprehension I found it really quite challenging. The dance was admittedly one of my favourite scenes, and I felt like a lil dash of sweetness (and spice) was overdue for our bewildered elves. As for fire... I suppose this chapter was more of a hurricane, but do tell me what you think about the Eroth here! _

_I know! It's all nearly come to an end. I've yet to find something to fill the Middle-Earth shaped void once all this is over._


	37. The Other Side of Eternity

**Chapter 37 – The Other Side of Eternity**

She stood before his tent, the crickets sounding at the junctions of her breaths, the night cold. The clouds passed over a cruel moon. Eroth shifted her feet. The grass was wet, laden with dew and darkness, shadowed blue under the low sky.

Legolas' tent crouched slanted and indistinct mere paces away. She had a duty to tell him, and he had the right to know. A night of restlessness had taught her that, until the truth weighed too heavily to be brought into slumber, and Eroth could wait no longer.

Fear crawled to her throat. But he would be sleeping now, in these small hours, his chest untroubled. She would wreck the little freedom he had left.

A light took flight in the tent. Eroth drew back into the shadows. Soon the flicker of a lifted candle moved through the shadows within, leapt up beside the opening in the cloth, and shone brightly into the night.

"Who is there?" its wielder murmured.

He stepped out of the tent, casting a long shadow upon the blue grass, the flame dusting his sleepshirt with flecks of gold. Something in the set of his shoulders loosened.

"Dree," he said. His words breathed clouds of white into the blackness. "Come inside."

"Don't let me in."

Legolas tilted his head, lips curling into a sleep-slanted smile, warm with candlelight. "What if I insist?"

The inside of the tent was cold. Eroth wrapped the cloak tighter around her neck, shivered through its velvet folds and the thin creases of her nightgown. She leaned against the flimsy give of the tent's material, frowning into candlelight.

"When I speak, promise me this."

She had never believed in promises – yet here she was, demanding flimsy offerings to clothe the jagged truth. Eroth was here to break all that they had. Legolas looked up at her from the mattress. His hair was loose about his neck, rivulets of silver, and long lashes chased shadows onto his cheek.

She cast her eyes away, and continued. "I want you to do your best not to hate me, Legolas."

"When you talk like that I know 'tis something better left unsaid. Yet I'd rather you tell me." His voice was softer now, troubled. The crease between his brows spoke of many things, and Eroth grasped at each in vain.

But the dark of his eyes told the most stories, and she was so fluent in them it frightened her.

"Will we be friends, Legolas, after our betrothal?"

The words crawled from her mouth, cold and cruel. She could not look at him.

In the hush that followed his gaze was searing. "The King – "

"By Elbereth, Legolas, it is _done_."

There lay a new meaning in his eyes that she could not decipher. But the pale fingers, clenched tight upon the white sheets – this she knew, and from his father's trait she read his sorrow. It pained him to be bound to her, Eroth supposed; her lip twisted.

Legolas had looked away, the line of his jaw tight. Finally he said softly, " _goheno nin_. I never meant to take this from you." _(I am sorry)_

The lantern flickered at his feet. There was a silver-gold tuft of hair behind the curve of his ear, which hung shorter than the rest, shorn accidentally by her dagger one midsummer night. And by the hem of his sleepshirt a faint scar was scrawled upon the pale canvas of his neck, a token from the forest. She thought of how only she knew it was there.

Despite every last fragment of her heart she'd clung onto, each step of the way, perhaps Eroth had already little left to give.

She arranged those sentiments, sifted through them and choked them away, so that her voice could be masked, cold and hard and safe. "You owe me nothing," she told him. She was weary of his searching glance, weary of the raw meaning of it flitting like shadows behind his eyes.

Legolas drew back the sheets and came towards her. His eyes cut like blades. She half expected his touch too to chill, but the tips of his fingers were light and lingering against her skin, warm upon her cheek and brow. She flinched back in surprise, met the confines of the tent, then sunk her hands into the hem of his sleepshirt, and pulled him closer.

Startled blue eyes crashed into her vision. Legolas drew back, his hands upon her jaw, swift shadows tracing paths across his features.

He held her as if she was something precious, held her like river-water in cupped palms.

"You asked of me," he spoke, "whether we shall be friends."

But Eroth was not like the river; his touch bound her, washed her ashore, felt like home and freedom and all things in between.

"Well, Dree, here is your answer."

Eroth could not remember when he had kissed her.

One moment she was shattering under the glass-sharp of his eyes, warm fingers upon her skin, the space between them the length of breaths – and the next moment there were none. As such space crumbled so did the kingdoms of wariness, of doubt in small hours, of false hope concealed.

She would have him as the tangle of kindred words, as sweet grass under swift feet and turning pages in late nights. But she wanted more, needed more, and he would give it to her, as she had given all.

So when she tangled hands into Legolas' hair, as she had longed to do, and bit down on his lip until he gasped into her mouth, Eroth was glad for this new part of him – of _them_ , that they had left to give.

"You answer, Thranduilion," she said, "proves very articulate."

She broke away just in time to see the wilderness in his eyes, passing dark as the sea after a storm. It was as if the clouds had left, and in their place lay a blistered sky of emotion. Legolas had learnt the art of masking, too.

" _Manka tanya tuula?_ " he murmured, "what does this mean?"

"Do you love me, Legolas?"

The dark blue of his eyes was open and raw, revealed for her alone. "The same bond binds us both."

"What if I cannot say?"

"Don't you see?" he smiled in the dimness, and there was a strand of silver tangling upon his cheek. "It does not matter."

They loved, and had loved for long, already and always. And though it was not the love of books, or songs, or silly sonnets, she would not change this love for the very wings of the swallows. This love set her free, gave her flight beyond all the lands of the earth. This love was _hers_ , and Eroth knew that nothing of hers was silly, or pure, or proved anything short of complex and furious and entangling.

Eroth kissed him again, and sighed against his lips, and although she still sought for her answer she could tell that there were many things that mattered, and many that did not, and she would know only in the times to come.

* * *

They left at the edge of summer. The season was coming where cold winds of the later months swept the land, and the leaves began to join their shadows upon the ground. And it was the season that the Elves unmoored their boats from the sand, folded their tents from the empty ground, and passed finally into the folklore of Esgaroth.

At the banks of the river a man stood, shrouded in his heavy fishing-coat, crinkling his eyes against the sharp morning sky.

Weeks ago the rum of an inn had brought to him a sight he could not forget. Perhaps he wanted to see in soberness whether the maiden of his hazy impressions was still a beauty; or perhaps he entertained only the humble wish of viewing the new stock of fish. Either way, his feet had carried him down to the grey paved banks of the River Running, and now he stood among the scattered crowd of the curious and the admiring, bidding them their silent farewell.

The boats were long and sharp, like the beaks of hummingbirds, and bore their company solemnly across the dappled water. The man craned his neck, stamping the dust from his boots. That was when he saw her.

Her hair was no longer crinkled velvet, but blew loose in the wind, scattering flashes of copper into the morning air. In her hand she held the silken cap that had so captivated the man upon their first meeting. He could not understand his intoxicated wonder.

She was standing at the helm of a boat, watching the receding streets, her eyes narrowed against the light. He laughed at the foolish notion of this elleth in heavy gowns and rich jewels. She was beautiful, beautiful beyond mortality, but it was a strange, faraway beauty, intangible as the wintry light upon the river.

There was nothing striking in the tilt of her nose and the curve of her lips, no becoming roseate tint to the pale cheek or elegant arch to the brow. Hers was the beauty of long grass, the grace of reckless rivers.

She belonged to the forest, and would carry on belonging until the rivers ran dry and the old trees died. And yet she stood straight and tall, her grey eyes bright; as if she was eager, and unafraid to greet the other side of eternity.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 ** _Aralinn:_** _*blushes* thank you! You're right about Eroth - she's keen to be in control, and that is part of the reason why the idea of love scares her so much. Its a sacrifice she cannot afford (or so she thought). As for Legolas,_ _I hope you've found your answer in this chapter :p_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15:** here it is mellon nin! Everything has led up to this moment, but there is more to come, and its very sweet and kind of unexpected, and incredibly overdue. Your feedback always makes me happy, because you understand the characters so well and I'm always worried about being vague. I enjoyed writing about Thranduil too! He's complex and uneven and I'm glad you liked it :p_

 _As for life after this story, I'm thinking about dabbling in some poetry!_


	38. After the Storm

**Chapter 38 – After the Storm**

Legolas was in wonder. The leaves of Greenwood were old now, drifting from their heights. The bubbling of a secret brook beyond moss-woven stones was music to his ears. He had not known how much he yearned for this until the time came. The elf tilted his head back against the tree's bark, and his sight was threaded with branches.

There was a voice etched somewhere between the pale sky and the leaves and the mist.

"There is a saying, Thranduilion."

He felt a familiar presence come to sit beside him. She crossed her ankles, exhaled forest air, "those who sit alone hear the sweetest sounds."

"I am not alone now."

"Nay," Eroth turned towards him, a smile tangling upon her lips. "We are alone together."

He touched fingers to her jaw and kissed her cheek lightly, listened for the telltale hitch in her breath. "And this is the sweetest sound."

Her eyebrow quirked and a crinkle appeared upon her nose. Eroth drew back, smirking, and he saw that the morning's windblown riding had betrayed the waves of her hair. Mist clung to her lashes. She smoothed back wayward strands with a careless hand and sat back upon her heels.

"The company will be moving soon. You ought to return. They've appointed me as a scout; don't look for me, and take care of my steed until I come back."

"Find someone else to do that. I'm coming with you."

"Very well," she drew her bow from its strap, rising neatly. "I have forgotten the path. You must take the left trail, and I the right. With luck we will chance upon it."

Legolas narrowed his eyes, rising. "You knew I would come."

She smiled secretively. He stalked closer, laying his hand upon her bow, and pushed it aside.

"Of course you did. Sweet words, my lady, and I'd presumed they were out of affection. You were simply seeking a scouting partner."

"Your titles are very courteous. I would prefer that –"

She fell into silence abruptly. Legolas had slid his hands down the slope of her bow to encircle her slight wrists, and she watched as he brought them slowly behind her back. He decided that he liked her this way, closer and a little untamed, a little unravelled. Grey eyes flickered slowly over his face.

"As challenges go, you forget that I am armed – and you are not."

"You are mistaken." He bent his head, his lips hovering before hers, hung his words up between the tantalising distance. "This is a challenge of a different nature."

She quirked her head to the side, assessing him. Something in her gaze shifted, flickered to his mouth and back, stormy grey darkening. There was a new expression on her face, one he wished to see again; a small smile, lilting and lopsided, and a flash of teeth. "What if I win?"

"Then," he murmured, "you may win again."

Alone in the drifting mist he kissed her, a thrill of soft skin and cold lips, dragged down and drowned beneath.

She leaned into him, sighed against the kiss, and he could feel her breath echo in his very bones. She was a friend, more than a friend, and above all Eroth was _kindred_ , real and reckless and a part of him. Legolas freed her wrists and trailed hungry fingertips across her jaw. It felt like love, and hurt like love; it was monstrous in its greed and cruel in its intimacy. Legolas had never known anything like it before.

So he tangled careful hands into copper hair and tasted it more deeply, in wonder of how this sensation had slumbered for the first thousand years of his existence.

He stepped away, and there was a fresh ache within his chest like a wound opened. "Keep from trouble, Eroth."

* * *

It had been too long since they had parted ways at the splintering of the trails. The mist had fallen into a fog, and Legolas could no longer determine the course whence he came. He lifted dark bracken from his path, stepping between the hoary trees.

Greenwood was dear to him. Some called it a cruel place, told of a darkness that lay between the trees, and of the ghostly white of webs in lonely nights. But Legolas knew a Greenwood in glorious moonlight, alive with the stirrings of winds and feathered wings, knew it cool and dew-laden, knew it in dusk and small hours, in summer, in flood and in fire.

The elf laid open palms upon the skin of a willow, and breathed in its sweet scent of bark. There was a tangle of ivy upon it.

He was about to turn away when a faint sound reached his ears. It was a distant clatter, rapid echoes chasing its din. An uncanny sound.

Frowning, he turned sharply on his heel and made for the trail.

First an uncanny din, then uncanny silence. He unslung his bow and slid and arrow from its quiver. Cautiously he traced the forest path with his steps, mocked by the settling silence. Legolas sifted gentle fingers along the feathers of the arrow, feeling it thrum under his touch, beguiling his senses with familiar power.

He stilled. Another noise, something like the crackle of a felled branch.

He stole closer, his steps quickening. The crackle sounded out again, this time beneath his own feet. It echoed once, twice, and was choked by the fog. The ellon bent down and skimmed fingers over the soil. They met thin air. He drew back in horror, staring down into the steep drop beneath. A forest ravine.

He would not allow himself to fear for her. His friend, his betrothed, his night and dawn. Yet the likelihoods clung to his throat and hands like webs, so he clenched them tightly into fists. Legolas rose sharply, circling the precipice. Paces away he came upon a scatter of boulders and climbed down to the ground beneath, sinking his fingers into the thick moss.

There was a dark tumble of crumpled green velvet amidst crumpled green leaves.

Closer he went; flaming strands of hair trickled like blood into the wet soil. Closer, closer – her eyes were shut, coppery lashes casting shadows over pallid cheeks. He bent over her slight form; untied her cloak with swift fingers.

He must find the wound. The scent of blood clung to them. "Eroth. _Mellon nin_. _Uuma dela_."

Chill fingers ghosted across his hand resting upon her pulse. Eroth turned her cheek from the soil, her gaze wrecked and fond.

"Fool," she whispered. "Back. Spine."

Legolas wrapped an arm around her shoulders and shifted her torso sideways. Her eyes were closed.

"Don't you let go," she murmured lowly. "Legolas… Legolas."

" _Dina_." Steadying his erratic breathing, the ellon slid his hands from hers, exposing her back. Her tunic had been ripped from the neck to the nape. The strip of torn material gaped like soil after a flood.

"Oh, Eroth." He pressed an earnest kiss to her temple. "I am going to hurt you."

 _Suddenly, they were in the Elvenking's palace, with the spring light upon the rocks. "Will you teach me now, Thranduilion?"_

 _Her red curls had slipped over her shoulder again, and her elbow still hovered ominously above his chest. The damp moss was beginning to stain his tunic._

 _"_ _Stop calling me Thranduilion."_

 _"_ _Never."_

Legolas wrenched himself from the memory, inhaled sharply and firmly, his hands making swift work of the wound. He bound it with the strip of his tunic, drew it tight across pale skin and elven blood. He had seen blood and bones and battered skin, knew it too early, too well – but this he could not look upon without something filling his lungs, cold and ugly.

He lifted fingers to his mouth, whistled sharp and harsh into the woodland fog, and waited.

 _Their fortress was golden like autumn sunshine and crinkled as streams. Eroth had assured him that no malice could find him here, nor power break them, for the pile of dried leaves protected a kingdom as safe and vigilant as any under the sky. And yet she was abandoning her city._

 _"_ _It is near noon," Eroth was saying. "Luncheon will be ready."_

 _"_ _You are leaving now?"_

 _"_ _Aye." An impish quirk of her lips. "After all, there is a world beyond these walls."_

 _She was parting the roof of autumn leaves above. Legolas lunged at her, and they tumbled back to safety beneath the crinkled gold. She scowled, but he skittered fingers up her neck, and her lips pressed firmly together, before breaking into a small smile. Soon they were a mess of limbs and muffled giggles, the luncheon upon distant tables forgotten, going cold in autumn air._

 _"_ _Bother the world, Dree," he'd told her._

Hooves were clattering nearer. Eroth stirred upon his shoulder, her skin cold, too cold, against his neck. The horses were coming up the trail.

" _Daro!_ " he cried. "'Tis a ravine!"

The hooves stopped. A pair of footsteps drew near, and voices sounded.

"Is the Prince well?"

Two figures descended from the rocks, Elves of the guard, moving too slowly and too cautiously. He held Eroth tighter against him, her breaths rapid and trembling against his neck, and bit back the turmoil within his heart.

"Help me lift the Princess onto a steed. Send word to the company to take the left path. Spare me that horse. I will ride fast with her."

The elf stopped abruptly. "The Princess?"

 _The boulder was wide enough for two._

 _"_ _Where is your mamma, Eroth?"_

 _He had found her by the banks of the river, with her hands against the stone and her eyes upon starlight._

 _Her answer was absent. "Where yours is."_

 _They both looked up. The night sky gazed back, tranquil, deeper than all the oceans of the earth._

 _"_ _Do you think she is there?"_

 _"_ _Of course," her eyes were tinted pale when she smiled. "She dances with all the brightest stars, and all is merry in the night sky."_

He wrapped his arms around her waist and spurred the horse into the trees. The fog was closing in. Harsh wind tore through them, rending the passing trees, and Legolas leaned sharply into the rush, urged them ever faster.

 _She emerged from the thicket, her hair tousled, ginger curls dangling in front of her eyes. She brushed the strands away impatiently and flashed him a smirk, one of those complacent, lopsided smiles that either irked him or mocked him. This she wielded like a blade._

 _"_ _Guess what I found."_

 _Perched upon the edge of the grey thicket was a dragonfly of a brilliant golden hue, its wings thrumming softly in the breeze._

 _"_ _It matches your hair," Eroth murmured, peering down at the delicate shock of yellow. "I have named it after you."_

 _He raised an eyebrow. "Legolas?"_

 _"_ _No, Thranduilion of course."_

But Legolas could not feel yet. He would reach the Elvenking's realm before nightfall. And yet –

 _Her eyes, dark and wide, grey as storms. The night wrought with riddles. "You would not find a painless love as far as the Sea of Ruhn."_

 _Her fingers, twisting at her silken dress. "Come to the dance next time, you cannot seek your betrothed among the trees and stars."_

 _Her hands, light upon his brow. "Sleep now, Legolas. Oltho cae'ne fuin hen."_

 _And then there came the thrill of soft skin and cold lips, and a creature that felt like love, and hurt like love._

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _ **Aralinn** : *dances with you* aren't we all glad the wait is over :p I'm sorry to hit you with this mid-dance; the path of true love never did run smooth._

 _ **WickedGreene13** : *bows* Laegwen at your service! I hope my lengthy rendition of it satisfied your expectations ;)_

 _ **legolasgreenleaf15** : I can't believe it! You've been with this story for so long, and I can't thank you enough for staying with (and sympathizing with) our young elven protagonists. And don't worry about sounding odd! Odd is good in the realm of fanfiction. Now the curtain is falling, and since you're one of Eroth's key strategists, how do you think her tale will end? PS: I'm seriously getting into this poetry thing :p _

_**rainrushingwindowpain** : I love love love your comment. I want to fold it up and look at it every time my writing is being stubborn. I mean (strangers like you are why I write), thank you for reading, and taking a dip into Eroth's world, and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have! _


	39. Meleth Nin

**Chapter 39 – Meleth nin**

The time apart had not changed Feredir.

"She heals well," he said curtly. "You know that she does, by now."

The elf was leaning against the arched doorway, barring the entrance to the room with folded arms and folded lips, thin with worry. He had treated her wound, and the open windows let out the scent of blood. "And she is sleeping."

"Idhrenion," Legolas murmured. "Let me in."

"I know you wish to see her." There was a sharpness and flicker behind his glance. "But even the King's son must heed some rules."

The night air brimmed from the darkened room, and yet the blood still lingered, clung to them restlessly.

"Rules are only broken if the breaker is discovered. Help me once more, Feredir."

Dark eyes flickered to the bed within and then back again, studied him with knowing slowness. His jaw clenched resolutely, and he shifted to the side, languid and deliberate. "I know nothing of your presence."

Legolas inclined his head, hiding the tightness of his jaw. "You were a victim of my deceit."

"'Tis not very far from the truth," muttered he. "I will return thrice before dawn to treat her. If you please, I would prefer not to be received with a dagger to my throat."

With an arch to his brow he left Legolas at the doorway. It was the small hours of the morning when he came to sit beside her bed. The sky beyond was black and loud, heaving with the sounds of the crickets and the night birds; the forest an intruder.

Tendrils of copper hair tilted dark upon the pillows. It bewildered him, left him empty. This was _Eroth,_ arrogant and unruly, who had a dimpled smile and loved crows and kept a feather collection beneath her bed. _Eroth_ , with a fascination for spider-webs and long-forgotten wars, who had a penchant for tangerines and knew all the routes to the kitchen larders.

Eroth, who –

Eroth would have hated to lie there, being so terrifyingly still, safe from any specimens of trouble.

Legolas started from the chair and came to stand before the window, watching the blue leaves catch in the autumn wind. " _Quel esta,_ " he breathed out, into the darkness.

Other sentiments he'd drank from before, fleeting feelings, had scratched his skin and bruised him gently, gracefully. But not this. This was different, so very different, and it cut deep into his bones and felt colder, more ancient. The elf tilted his head and listened to the black rushing brook below, tired eyes upon the autumn leaves like floating stars, falling from their last sanctuary.

He watched the sun rise over the forest that morn. It drifted up upon misty treetops, blazing amber, wild with unspoken words. The cracked blue of the new sky brought a wind so sharp that it cut his fingertips over the windowsill, grazed his knuckles with its chill. The room was silent, the air sweet with the scent of blood.

Legolas resented this blood. Her wound was not something he could curl his hands around, shake from her body; it was not the wisps of hair he drew from her eyes or the arrows he placed in her hands to cast far, far away.

Against Eroth he was helpless.

He turned back into the room and she was there on the bed, her hair tangling over the pillow like ivy. She was looking at him.

His feet were locked in place. The elleth watched him some more, as he counted each dip of her lashes, watched him with eyes deep upon her pale face, and dark enough to swallow him whole.

"You know, Thranduilion," she said. "I think I am in love with you."

She told him this with her lips against the grey pillow, her breath stirring the lock of hair at her temples. Then she drew her elbows from under the blanket, all sharp edges and morning light and the wind upon her skin.

She smiled at him, too bright for the room, and something shattered in him, left him in fragments.

"Dree," he told her, "you hair resembles a robin nest. And I've loved you since Lake Town."

Her smile was lopsided, dipping into the silk at her cheek like birds' wings. "Have you?"

"Would you have me say it again?"

Eroth's glance collided with his, intent and soulful and searching, and Legolas was lost. "Yes."

He drew his aching arms away from the windowsill, took three strides to the side of her bed. He said it with his mouth against the shell of her ear, lips grazing the delicate tip, said it again softer, to hear the hitch and stutter in her breath.

* * *

The drooping lavender at Eroth's bedside was purple no longer. The petals were dry beneath her fingertips when she crushed them. She scattered them onto the table. Her old bedroom, as if from her absence, had developed a chill to the air. Eroth let out a hollow breath.

The pain in her spine, nestled tight against the base of her back, had dulled over the weeks. It no longer troubled her when she did not want it to. She adjusted her tunic, took the dainty ceramic vase from the table, and cleaned it with a cloth. When it was done, she placed both objects in the little, crooked shelf above her bed. Then she stopped.

Gently, the crumbled lavender was swept up with her hands and cast into a wicker basket.

They'd told her that her room would be in the uppermost corridor of the palace. There were wide windows to let in the sunlight and a balcony where they could listen to the night wind, listen to each other, listen to their mingling heartbeats.

She imagined her father, some autumn evening, standing in the middle of the room as she did now, glance catching all the emptied corners and places where dust had fallen.

Balthoron talked with her often, and she wondered if he had ever been so warm before. He told her about Lorien, about his youth and her childhood, about many insignificant or forgotten things besides. He never talked about the wedding, though it lay behind his eyes often.

She thought that she had seen Istuon one morning. He caught her glance and held it, tilted his head with a smile, turned away to look at the elleth by his arm. They'd turned down the path and into the shade of some sycamore trees, and Eroth was finally freed from the image of a pen and a hair-clasp, floating down a woodland stream.

Eroth brushed lavender from her palms. A crisp sound against the window drew her glance towards it. A pebble clinked once more against the glass, fell from sight to the soil below.

The elleth unclasped the window swiftly and leaned down. She saw Legolas' up-tilted features at the ground below, with a smirk upon his lips and his hair in disarray about his shoulders.

"What is your business, Thranduilion?"

"That is no way to address a lover." He took two paces back, narrowed glinting blue eyes at her. "The robin's eggs have hatched. I thought you'd want to see them."

He drew a strip of bark from the pale strands of his hair, idly, expectantly. There was a secret smile upon his lips. Eroth swung her leg over the sill, hooking her fingers onto the frame. She reached for the out-flung branch of a tree.

"Eroth," Legolas called. "Mind your wound."

When her feet touched the soil she smoothed down the crinkles in her tunic. Her hand pressed to the bark, she tilted her head at him.

" _Meleth nin,_ " she said. "Our scars are healed."

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _*mic drop*_

 _(thank you all for reading Deluge, and congratulations for being the spectators of one thousand years. This is the end, I guess. Only technically. I suppose Eroth and Legolas are scaling trees for a nest of newly hatched r_ _obbins as we speak)_

 _(to my reviewers: I with I could show you how much happiness your comments regularly bring me. This chapter is for you)_


	40. Epilogue

**Epilogue I**

 _It was a fine evening,_ Eroth decided, _if not for the blasted heat and the great spider hanging from her blade._

There were strands of hair plastered to her cheek. She shook the twitching creature from her dagger with a noise of disgust, and ground her heel down onto its body to put an end to the damned convulsing. Looking up, she let loose the white blade into another arachnid, and started back to watch it tumble haphazardly from the trees.

No time to retract the weapon. Eroth reached across her back and slid fingers across the graceful curve of her bow. An arrow upon the string and the thrill of its tension stilled the click of pincers behind her neck. Finally freeing her hands, she brushed the offending strands from her skin and turned.

Over the century of weary patrols and slashing at webs in the dark, Eroth had learnt the precise sound of taps upon tree-bark. She drew back her arm and the creatures among the branches stilled their advance. But the elleth did not free her arrow.

"Their numbers are too many," she called. "Something must have provoked this."

The air sang with the hiss of arrows, and elven cries marked the approach of those of the guard. Her bow hummed with tautness. Carefully she kept her eyes upon her foe and risked a single step backwards. The arachnids seemed to creep closer, but the shadows swallowed them and the trees betrayed her sight. Eroth scowled.

A glint of teeth in the blue evening and the bough shivered. Her arrow struck hard flesh, and a many-limbed form crashed from the heights. She backed away swiftly and knelt in the undergrowth. From her new vantage she saw the white webs heaving under their weight. It would be a long battle.

The din of footsteps neared. Two hooded figures flitted between the trees and in their wake came a rain of arrows, like locusts in the dark. Eroth fired thrice and turned. The slender birch was easy to master, and soon she leapt atop another tree, older and more dangerous. With her arrows she lashed at the webs, seeking solace behind branches, and tried to overlook the growing ache in her arms.

Then there came the sharp sound of ripping cloth. She glanced down. "That's my favourite tunic, you beast!"

She struck out with her arm and the creature swayed upon the branch. Within breaths her bow was gone and her daggers were in her hands, glimmering white. The spider skittled closer. Eroth curved her wrist and drove the blade into its mouth with a cry. She pulled back, leaning against the trunk as it collapsed before her, the shard of fabric from her tunic fluttering from its pincers. With another curse upon her tongue she forced herself into motion once more, sliding from branch to bough to the noise below.

The elves were gathering between the trees. There came a terrible scuttling and a shuddering at the treetops; the spiders had fled. The voices of her kin murmured around her, low and kind, the sound of safety. Eroth sheathed her blades. New lights bloomed in the darkness.

At the edge of the lanterns an ellon emerged, pale hair bright. Legolas stalked across the battlefield, twisting his blades behind his back, the thin metal whistling. A flush was fading on his skin, like a bruise, and his eyes sparked. His fingers touched the nape of her neck. He leaned down, crashed his lips to hers, and rendered her more breathless than any enemy blade.

The broke apart, her fingers fisted in his collar. Elven cries sounded out somewhere in the distance – an alarm raised. "We shall go," she told him. And then, an afterthought – the fleeting press of cold lips to the corner of his mouth.

Erewhile they crashed through into the clearing and met a sight so queer and unexpected it brought them to an abrupt stop. A noisy huddle of diminutive men stood within their circle of arrows, stamping great boots upon the nettles and grumbling what seemed like curses in their tongue. Eroth lowered her bow in wonder.

 _Dwarves! She had never seen any creature quite so short._

 **Epilogue II**

In the end, Eroth named their child Eloen.

She was a silver-locked elfling, hard to separate from her mother's skirts but harder to drag from brawls, whose eyes were grey as the traveller who had held her, his wasted hands smoothing across her hair, his eyes warm despite the tears which doused them.

Pelior had thanked her for the name of the mortal he had loved and grieved for, his lips pressed against the elfling's cheek, lingering, lingering. Then he gave her to Eroth, told his sister that he would remember them in the next world.

 _Do you think mother will be there?_

 _Of course, nethel nin. Of course._


End file.
